


Watch and Wait

by Hah_life15



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 46,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28642893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hah_life15/pseuds/Hah_life15
Summary: Visited by a figure lurking at the edge of her vision, Sansa tries to discover who or what haunts her.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 56
Kudos: 121





	1. I

I

It began with the death of her father. Surrounded by her mother and siblings, they’d watched the life drain from his body as the shuddering breaths ceased in his chest. An awful pallor spread through sallow cheeks that had once been full, and the light in his eyes faded to dull glass. 

Sansa had cried into the palm of his mottling hand, begging him not to go, as gradually, her brothers and sisters dispersed, unable to bear the pain of sitting with his remains anymore. Only her mother stayed with her, drifting into an exhausted sleep after days of restless purgatory, watching Ned’s condition change and decline by the hour, never knowing when the last moment would come. Eyes running dry of tears to shed, Sansa lifted her head. It was no longer her father in the bed. He had left, gone to where she and the others couldn’t follow, leaving an inanimate corpse bearing a resemblance of the life that had been. 

There was a silence, empty and hollow, expanding and blanketing the room, until the sounds of her breaths seemed like the gusts of heavy winds. Her chest hitched, and she listened, hearing the vacancy resonating off the walls. And just as she released a sigh, there came a scratch on the floor in the corner. She twisted her head and saw nothing more than the heavy wardrobe her parents used for their clothes. Red rimmed eyes darted blearily, searching for the source of the unwelcome noise. 

A mouse, perhaps, or her ears were all together mistaken. 

Sunshine invaded through the window and she spotted the shadow of a bird flying past. It was a beautiful day for death, and she felt it obscene that the sun should be out, that the skies should be clear, that the world should carry on as if nothing were wrong. Sniffing, she wiped her face on her sleeve. What was she supposed to do now? What were any of them to do? 

Another scratch and from the periphery of her vision, Sansa glimpsed the frayed edge of a cloak. Her head whipped around, her heart skipping a beat, and the image slipped away, just out of sight, eluding her focused gaze. 

The rumple of her dress on the bed sheets woke her mother. 

“Sansa? What is it?” Catelyn asked her pale daughter, noting the startled look on her face. 

Swallowing dryly, Sansa nodded. Grief was playing havoc with her senses. 

Four years had passed since cancer had taken her father, leaving her mother with six children to raise, only five of her choosing. Subsisting on the small fortune of the estate, they relied on one another, living modestly on their income, determined it should cover the welfare and education of all. 

Rob and John had left for college two years ago, and on a late August evening, Sansa packed her trunk. In the morning she’d be on the first train to the city, moving into an apartment walking distance from school. The arrangements were made, the ticket bought, goodbyes said, and yet she couldn’t help the feeling of remorse that she should leave her mother alone with her younger siblings. 

Arya grew more willful by the day, and was no help with Rickon or Brandon. Only a year  after the untimely death of their father had Brandon fallen from the oak tree shading Ned’s grave. Paralyzed from the waste down, he required assistance in getting up, getting dressed, toileting, and bathing. The adaptive equipment and a wheelchair greatly improved his mobility, but even still, the risk of another fall followed him around like a dog on his heels. 

Rickon was wild, rambunctious, unpredictable. His teacher pleaded that they take him to be evaluated for a behavior disorder with the hope he could be put on a regimen to control his erratic energy. Catelyn wouldn’t hear of it, and pulled him out of school. He was privately tutored at home and as a result, the halls echoed with his tantrums. He simply refused to sit for more than a minute and threw explosive, ear piercing fits when he wasn’t allowed outside to play in the middle of a lesson. 

Sansa sat on the edge of her reading chair, procrastinating. It wasn’t fair to abandon her mother with this. She was never meant to raise her children alone. Missing from every meal, from every birthday, from her brother’s and her own graduation, was her father, and in his heavy absence she felt guilty for leaving.  A silent tear spilled down her cheek, and she brushed it away with the back of her hand. She’d spent enough tears mourning the past. Now was her time to break free of the house shrouded in memories and make a life for herself. Her mother knew it, encouraged it, reassured her they’d be fine. So why was it she hesitated to go? 

Staring distantly out the window overlooking the front lawn and carport, there was a wisp of gray cloth from the corner of her eye. Trailing after it, her eyes landed on the purple pattern curtains, swaying in the breeze floating in from outside. The clock on her mantle chimed. Eleven o’clock and she’d made zero progress. Enough. Tucking her long auburn hair behind her ears, Sansa stood and hovered at the side of the unmade bed. There was nothing to be done except to be done with it. Carelessly tossing her belongings into the chest, she sat on the lid and fastened the latches. There, she was packed. 

With a sigh, she fell onto the bed, kicking off her slippers and curling up in the blankets. Pulling the chain on her lamp she turned out the light, the moonlight bathing the room in a dim glow. Tomorrow approached with all the haste of a wild stampede. She would face it with as much rest as she could manage. Tossing and turning, Sansa's anxieties fought against sleep. When, at last, she drifted away, a gray hooded figure slipped out the cracked window, alighting into the cool night.


	2. II

II

“Jane! Wait up,” Sansa called, catching her friend and roommate outside The Nut coffee shop where Jane worked part time. 

“Sansa?” she said, turning on her heels and removing the black apron from her waste. “I thought you were stuck in the chemistry lab all day?” 

“We got out early. Podrick set a table on fire.”

“How?!”

Sansa covered her laugh, trying to scrounge up an ounce of pity for the clumsy boy. 

“I’m not sure. All I know is he knocked over his bunsen burner.”

“What a clod.”

“He tries so hard and he’s so sweet. It doesn’t help that he’s terrified of Professor Drogo.”

“Who isn’t? By the way,” Jane grinned, “when’s the next date with Joffrey?”

Cringing, Sansa dodged the question. 

“Look,” she subtly inclined her head towards Jaime Lannister, and Jane was entranced with one look. A policeman and head of campus security, he was a sight for sore eyes. If a man could be beautiful, that man was Jaime. Perfect mane of gold hair reflecting sunlight, he smiled confidently, charming every woman who passed by without speaking. He went inside the coffee shop, his frumpy partner in tow, an enormous blonde woman named Brienne. She wore a serious expression and an ill fitting uniform.

Jane swooned. 

“He’s so pretty. Too bad he has _that_ for a partner.”

“Don’t be unkind. She helped me on my first day, remember? I got lost in the Baratheon building.”

“Uh, huh,” her friend answered, clearly not listening. 

They lingered for a moment, Jane panting over officer Jaime, and linked arm-in-arm, they walked down the shaded sidewalk of the university town. 

They shared an apartment, or, more aptly, Jane lived with Sansa, after they met in an advanced composition. Jane hated the dorms and Sansa hated living alone, listening to the creaks and cracks in the walls late at night. 

“Let’s cross,” Jane whispered as they rounded the corner and spotted Ramsay Bolton heading their direction. The two trotted to the other side, avoiding the man’s repulsive gaze. 

Resident creep of the college, there was something not right with his smile, and the tone of his conversation, though always polite, was disconcerting in its intentional ambiguity. He spoke easily, but every word seemed to insinuate a threat. 

“I heard he’s in the medical program,” Sansa said softly and shuddered. “I can’t imagine having him for a doctor.”

“I don’t know. Perhaps, he’ll work with the dead. I could see him enjoying a career of perpetual autopsies.”

They laughed, turning the next corner up to the street of their two story complex. An aching pit opened in Sansa’s stomach. Loitering outside the entrance of their building was the unmistakable profile of the person she least wanted to see, along with his cockroach of a friend, Meryn Trant. She ducked into the alcove of a fast food sandwich shop using Jane as an unwitting shield. 

“What is it?” Jane asked, amused. “You can’t be hiding from Joffrey?”

The weary expression on her face answered for her. 

“But why? I thought you said your date went okay?”

“Okay was a gross exaggeration.” Sansa held her friend fast by the shoulders, slouching down to conceal her tall stature. “Don’t let him see me!”

“Alright, alright. Then let’s get something to eat.”

Splitting the cost of what could loosely be called a sub, they took a seat at the back of the restaurant. 

“So what happened?” Jane pried, tucking into her half. 

Fidgeting with the hem of her blouse, Sansa stared at her hastily prepared food, the lettuce spilling out of the bun, and confessed. 

“It started off fine, really. He picked me up in the Tesla and it seemed like he was in a good mood, talking about the different additions and extras he’d purchased for the car, and it’s custom Baratheon red paint job. You know, normal boring boy stuff. But when we got to the restaurant -”

“He took you to that ritzy place, right? The one his uncle owns?”

She nodded. Tyrion Lannister’s exclusive whisky din offered the best food in town, if you had the money and the connections to gain membership. 

“Yes, and looking back, I wish he hadn’t. His uncle came by to introduce himself. Apparently, he knew my father and in the middle of trying to share a story about his trip to Winterfell, Joffrey interrupts him by pouring wine over the top of his head!”

“You mean he spilled it?”

“No,” Sansa shook her head. “He took his glass and purposefully held it over Tyrion and made a crude joke about his height. It was awful! He humiliated him and, Jane, you should have seen his face, to be laughed at so cruelly by a member of his own family. I gave Tyrion my napkin and apologized for Joffrey, but then Joffrey was angry with me. He complained for the rest of the night and called me stupid, as if I had missed the humor in his disgusting behavior. 

“He took me home after dinner and had the nerve to try and kiss me after insulting me. I think he expected...more, because when I shook his hand -”

“You shook his hand?”

“I couldn’t think of what else to do. He was coming right at me with his wormy lips puckered! So I shook his hand and ran inside. I heard him say ‘bitch’ before the door closed.”

“Oh Gods, Sansa, that’s horrible. No wonder you do want to see him. Should we call one of your brothers? Jon and Robb could get rid of the little vermin.”

“No! Absolutely not. Getting my own apartment was hard enough. My mother wanted me to move in with them when I started here, you know, keep us together for support. I love my brothers, but their place is a pigsty, and they bring home girls. I’ll vomit if I have to listen to...” she couldn’t make herself say it, “ _that_ through the walls.”

No, she’d stay away from Joffrey and wait for him to move on. The status and wealth of his family would secure him a new romantic interest in no time. 

“That would be a bit much,” Jane conceded. “Well, now that I know you can’t stand the obnoxious prick, I can tell you about a rumor I heard from Ros at the shop.”

Sansa leaned in.

“Turns out the spoiled mommy’s boy is packing a tic tac.”

“What?” she asked, genuinely confused. 

“A tic tac. An eraser head. An itty-bitty willie.”

Making a face, she held up her hands to stop her friend from any further euphemisms. 

“I didn’t need to know that.”

“All the same, better his tiny dick is some other girl’s misfortune.”

“And how would Ros know his...size?”

“She taught me a neat trick. You can tell the length of a man by the distance between his forefinger and thumb.” Jane showed her the L of her left hand, and traced the imaginary line from the tip of her index to her thumb. “That twerp has the hands of a child.”

Sansa snorted in spite of herself. His hand had felt like a girl’s when she’d held it. Ros’s theory sounded absurd, but neither Jane nor Sansa had the experience to refute it.

Dusting the flour from the bread off her hands, Jane asked:

“Shall we see if the rotten prince still blocks the castle?” 

They cleared their table, Sansa wrapping up the uneaten sandwich for Jane to have later, and carefully peeked out the door and down the street. The sidewalk was empty beneath the awning of their building. 

“All clear,” Sansa breathed. 

“Let’s go.”

Traffic buzzed by on the busy commercial street, cars racing from light to light. Strolling the short distance, the two divided up the workload for the classes they attended together. 

“You take physics, I haven’t got the brains for that stuff. At least statistics is just a matter of learning the equations.” 

“If you could stay awake during the lectures, you’d see physics isn’t so bad. Maester Luwin certainty gets a kick out of his own subject.”

“I’d pay more attention if he wasn’t so ancient. We need more teachers like Mr. Loras Tyrell. I’d sign up for ancient roman algebra for an excuse to stare at that face for an hour.”

Stifling a laugh, Sansa playfully nudged her in the side. Jane giggled, pushing her back with just enough force to push Sansa off of the curb. 

With barely the time to register the blare of the garbage truck’s horn, a firm grip landed on her arm, tossing her backwards as a gust of wind blew up her hair and a blur of navy blue metal whizzed by. The truck braked for half a second, the driver confirming he hadn’t hit a pedestrian, and sped off as if nothing had happened. Stunned and shaking, Sansa’s heart skipped like a broken stylus over a warped record. 

“Sansa!” Jane wrapped her in her arms. “Are you alright?! I’m so sorry!”

Processing the inches that had separated her from death, her voice stuck in her throat. Sansa nodded stiffly and hugged her friend. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Jane repeated. 

Inhaling, Sansa spoke, her voice thick: 

“It’s okay. Thanks for saving me.”

“Saving you? I pushed you in front of a truck!" 

“You pulled me back. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be a stain in the road.”

Jane pinched her eyebrows together, puzzled. 

“What? I didn’t do anything. I froze the second I saw the truck. I thought I was about to watch you die.”

“Someone grabbed my arm,” Sansa said, glancing around. 

“It’s just been us. There wasn’t anyone else.” She laughed nervously: “Maybe it was your guardian angel?”

Sansa shivered, remembering the feeling of being watched after her father had passed. 

Eager to get away from the traffic, Jane and Sansa hustled inside. A cup of soothing lavender tea, a few morbid jokes, and they were able to focus on their mountain of homework. 

Laying in bed that night, Sansa gazed suspiciously at the dark corner of her room. Nothing. No scratches. No shadowy movement. Closing her eyes, she thought of her father and wondered if Jane wasn’t right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented and gave feedback :)


	3. III

III

May arrived bringing warm weather and finals. Gorgeous summer days went unobserved from behind the pages of textbooks as students throughout the school regurgitated a semester’s worth of knowledge in practical exams. By Thursday that week, Sansa’s exhausted brain felt like the static hum of white noise. Three tests down and one more to go. 

“Remind me what tomorrow is?” Jane asked outside their physics classroom. Maester Luwin’s exam had been a brutal combination of essays and an oral practicum. 

“Chemistry for me, history for you,” Sansa replied, tucking back a stray lock of hair. 

“I can’t do it.” She dropped dramatically down to the grass lawn. “You’ll have to go on without me.”

“Shall I send word to your parents? So they can come collect your body?”

“No, no. Just tell them I died for the sake of higher education and to have a building named for me.”

“I don’t see them being able to afford it,” Sansa said with mock disappointment. “It’ll have to be a bench or a bathroom stall.”

Laughing, Jane threw her notebook at her and sat up. 

“Kill joy.”

“Hello Sansa.”

She tensed at the sound of his voice, her spine rigid as an iron rod. Turning slowly, she plastered on an affable smile. 

“Hello Ramsay. How are you?”

“Curious, as ever,” he said, leaving his curiosity unnamed. Skeevy eyes surveyed her beneath greasy black curls and his toothsome grin was like the snarl of a beast. 

Jane hopped up to her feet.

“So sorry, but we were just leaving.”

“Headed home?” he inquired, showing more teeth. “I’d be happy to join you.”

“Uh, no,” said Sansa, frantically trying to think up something else. As luck would have it, her brother, Jon, chose that moment to pop out of the lecture hall across the quad. “We’re hanging out with my brothers tonight. Have a good afternoon -” she waved, and she and Jane sprinted to Jon, each grabbing one of his arms. 

“Sansa? Jane?” His head swiveled to his captors. “What are you doing?”

“Keep walking,” Jane ordered. 

“Ramsay Bolton,” Sansa explained.

Jon shot a pointed glare over his shoulder, but the Bolton bastard was nowhere to  be seen. 

“You need me to take you home?” he asked his half sister. 

“No, but you’re taking me and Jane out for dinner.”

“I can’t. I have a date.”

“Great! She can come too.”

“No. No. You’re not invited.”

“It’s too late,” Sansa beamed, pressing the send button on her phone. “I’ve just texted 

Robb to join us.”

“He won’t want to come. Don’t you know about Talisa?”

“The girl from spring break?”

“The same. They barely come up for air anymore. No way he’ll -”

Sansa’s phone pinged. 

“He said yes!”

Defeated, Jon gave up. 

“Anyone else?”

“Nope-” Sansa kissed his cheek. “Pick us up at six and we need to be home by seven. We still have to study for tomorrow. Oh, and no Mexican food. We’ve had tacos three nights in a row. And nothing too loud, and no bars.”

Jon rolled his eyes as his sister commandeered his evening. 

“You’re a real brat.”

Jane and Sansa released their hold on him and ran home to get ready. 

Later that night, Robb and Jon were ousted to the end of the table so the four women could talk. Ygritte and Talisa were on familiar terms having exchanged awkward glances in the hallway to and from the bathroom during sleepovers with the brothers, and each had an interest in Sansa, particularly any childhood stories she was willing to share. 

“Did Robb have many girlfriends at Winterfell?”

“No,” Sansa replied between sips of a sweet red wine. “For a while, we wondered if he was gay.”

She screamed and laughed at Robb, who pegged her with a bread stick. 

“What of Mr. Snow?” Ygritte prodded. “Did he have any fellers back home?”

Jon chuckled with his head in his palm. 

“No, Jon took himself much too seriously for dating.”

“Did he now?”

“He always wore this unhappy look on his face. We never knew if he was lonely  or constipated.” 

The table erupted in laughter apart from the victim of Sansa’s recollections. An hour breezed by in what seemed like mere minutes, and Robb offered to give the pair of unruly girlfriends a ride home, wishing them luck on their last day of tests. 

Friday morning, Sansa awoke with a start, heart pounding in sync with the screech of the alarm. She pounded on Jane’s door and they dressed in a flurry. Sprinting out the door of their building, they ran headlong into the bright flash of spinning blue lights. 

Police cars lined the street and grim looking officers filed in and out of the apartment complex at the end of the block. 

“What do you think happened?” Jane wondered.

Sansa bit her lip, urging Jane to keep moving. They didn’t have the time for intrigue. 

Playing casual, they tried to get a passing glimpse of the scene, but the gathering crowd blocked anything of interest from sight. 

A quick dash to campus, four hours of testing, and enervated, they reclined on the sloping knoll outside the school stadium. 

“I can’t believe it’s over.”

“It went by quick, didn’t it?” Sansa agreed. 

Leaning up on her elbow, Jane’s expression turned pleading. 

“Are you sure you won’t stick around for summer?”

“Not a chance. My mother wants all of us home. Robb and Jon too. Ayra graduates next week, I can’t miss it.” And the nagging void returned, a reminder of the one person who’d be missing. 

“But I’ll be alone in that big apartment by myself. What am I supposed to do without you?”

Sansa paused. She hadn’t yet broached the subject with Jane, but her mother would expect for Arya to move in with her next fall. Her friend would have to crash somewhere else.

“I’m sure there’ll be other students around. Maybe you’ll find a cute guy or two?”

“Fine, desert me. I see how it is.”

“You’ll live,” she laughed, distractedly twirling a knot in her hair. There was still four days to break the news. 

“Uhg, alright. But we’re going out tonight. If I’m gonna meet a guy, I want you to see who he is so you’ll know who killed me when the police finally track down my body.”

“You’re breaking my heart.”

“Don’t leave!” she whined pitifully, and Sansa felt an ache in her chest from an old memory. 

“Why don’t we go home,” she switched to distraction, “and get cleaned up. We’ll do face masks, paint our nails, you can style my hair -” Jane loved to play with her hair - “and we’ll dress to the nines for tonight.”

It did the trick and her friend perked up, already lunging for Sansa’s hair, talking a mile a minute and planning out loud.

“Do you want it up or down. Never mind, I don’t care. I’m thinking curled, parted to the side. Oh! We’ll use that pretty ivy comb you got for Christmas, and...who’s that?”

Sansa followed her friend’s finger to the football field where a group of freshmen huddled close to their coach. On the sidelines, holding one of the players bags, was a man of gigantic proportions. From behind, they could make out the contours of his broad shoulders and back. A basic gray tee-shirt covered his hulking torso and a pair of black pants on his thick muscled thighs. 

“Do you think he’s varsity?” 

Sansa shrugged. Without seeing his face she couldn’t guess at his age. 

The team finished with a yell of “hoorah!” and they watched as Joffrey, his jersey miraculously clean compared to the mud and grass stains of his teammates, jogged over and called out:

“Dog, what are you doing here?”

The response was too low for them to hear.

Joffrey frowned petulantly. 

“I’m not a child. Tell her I’m busy. And where’s Trant?”

The second answer proved no more satisfactory. 

Throwing down his helmet, Joffrey screamed: “Pick that up!”

The man stooped down and palmed the helmet without a complaint. The other players, clearly amused by the blatant display of immaturity, mocked Joffrey’s tantrum, throwing their helmets and stomping their cleats. He stormed off in a rage to the parking lot, his face the ugly red of a zit about to pop and mouth pursed as tight as an anus. 

Out of his direct line of sight, they watched him go. The man called ‘Dog’ followed, his long strides unhurried. He carried the bag and helmet with an air of utter indifference, as if immune to the appalling treatment from Joffrey’s. As he crested the hill, a knee pad fell out of the sack. 

Sansa got up against Jane’s protests and picked it up. 

“Excuse me,” she beckoned, hoping Joffrey was too far ahead to hear. “Excuse me, you dropped something.”

Crashing into his back as he halted abruptly, she apologized, raising her eyes to his face. Her apology died on her tongue. 

Half his face was a ruin of scars, pulled taut and horribly uneven, blotched white and pockmarked from the side of his eye to the missing lobe of his ear. He had no eyebrow to frame his squinted right eye and his cheek was a stretch of thin tissue on bone. 

With a growl, he snatched the knee pad out of her hand and left. 

She swallowed dryly. 

“Are you okay?” Jane asked, catching up.

Nodding, she let out a breath.

“I didn’t even hear him say thank you.”

“It’s okay. I was rude to stare.”

“Sansa, you’re too nice for your own good. Come on, let’s get out of here. With any luck, that’s the last we’ll see of him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's tagged and checked out my story.


	4. IV

IV

What a pisser of a day.

Sandor had escorted the blond cunt home to his bitch mother. The apple hadn’t landed so much as it dangled from the tree, rotting on the limb from the inside out. 

Tywin had started a private hedge fund back in the boom of the eighties and made millions of the dot-com bubble and its eventual collapse, shorting the crash and doubling his investments. The rich and powerful flocked by the hundreds to apply for admission to his Castle Rock fund and he’d had the pleasure of selecting from the cream of the crop. Retired and teaching an economics course at the college, he'd given control of the company to Cersei who quickly proved she had none of her father’s restraint or foresight, spending lavishly and behaving like royalty. Gradually, investors slipped away, sensing the daughter couldn’t maintain Tywin’s legacy, and she was forced to admit more risky clients, bringing seedy money in and tainting the pool of wealth with the profits from illicit drugs, gambling, and arms trades. This new breed of investor required a firm hand to control. Having men like Sandor Clegane, Meryn Trant, and up until his recent arrest, Sandor’s brother, Gregor, helped remind the unsavory of who was really in charge.

The pay was good, playing strong man and gopher for the wealthy Lannister family, but no amount of gold they poured out of their seemingly bottomless pockets could ease his festering stink of self loathing. There was no fair fight in beating a man fallen down on his luck, squeezing him for his last few gold coins to stuff Cercei’s coffers. Grown men sobbed when he appeared on their doorstep, and it wasn’t just his grotesque mug of a face that had them crying for mercy. He wasn’t a good man, just a mangy mutt, good at baring his teeth and fetching money for his master. But it didn’t have to go on forever. 

No, he wasn’t a good man, but if held on a bit longer, he’d have what he needed to leave this fucked life for good. He socked it away, whatever scraps they tossed his direction. It was a matter of time and he could start over again. All he had to do was stay out of prison and bow to the queen bitch for another year, maybe two. 

His phone rang the somber tones of Chopin’s funeral march. Cersei beckoned.

“Mrs. Lannister,” he answered gruffly.

_“Trant has an engagement with Mr. Bosely this evening -”_

He smirked at the pretense. An engagement. How quaint. And at the end of his engagement Mr. Bosely would have a broken arm, swollen eyes, and some minor internal bleeding. 

Biting down on his tongue and swallowing spit tinged with iron, he listened to his assignment. At the end of the call, he pocketed his cell, gritting his teeth in anticipation of the shit night ahead. It was a dog's lot in life to obey. 

Dressed in her favorite dress, an indigo halter neck with a silky bow ribbon, Sansa inspected herself in the mirror. She had on her pearl earrings and a dew drop necklace. Jane had parted her hair to the side and curled it in thick spirals spilling down her right shoulder.After weeks of comfy sweatpants and tee-shirts, she savored the chance to dress up and go out without worrying about school. 

“Ready?” asked Jane, nearly bouncing with excitement. She had taken to the idea of finding a boy to amuse her for the summer. 

Shorter than Sansa by a foot, her friend was the epitome of a dazzling, energetic sprite, pixie hair cut and all. 

“Ready.”

The walk took longer than expected as Jane’s feet, used to sneakers, protested high heels, and she tottered with the grace of a newborn fawn. 

“This is why I wear flats.”

“You wear flats so you can walk upright indoors.”

She wasn’t wrong and Sansa laughed goodnaturedly. 

The club, The Nightwatch, was jumping and humming by the time they arrived. A small line had gathered at the neon lit entrance and a deadpanned doorman perused IDs at the door. 

“Oh, I hope Renley is in there. He’d be a dream to spend the summer with.”

Sansa winced. It was a poorly kept secret the varsity swimmer was gay. 

“Are you sure he’s staying for the summer?”

“A girl can find out,” she winked, and Sansa decided not to ruin her friend’s fantasy. 

Inside the dimly lit club, music reverberated from wall to ceiling speakers. A lit bar was hosted by two bartenders mixing drinks, performing tricks with bottles and glasses, pouring booze from on high and collecting wads of loose bills. People packed the sprung dance floor, undulating in mass. 

“Drinks or dance?” 

“Dance,” Sansa said, taking Jane’s arm with a wink. “See if someone might buy you a drink.”

They wiggled, they bobbed, they twirled, and they dipped, having fun and working up a sweat. Within minutes, Sansa felt a tap on her arm. It was Gendry, a handsome, dark haired sophomore who sat behind them in their composition class. 

“Hey,” he shouted over the speakers, a friendly smile on his face. 

“Hey,” she shouted back, and coyly pushed him to Jane. “Drinks!” she yelled and left, laughing at their embarrassment. Tonight was about Jane. She’d sidestep any guy it meant more for her friend. 

Two rounds of drinks later and a half a dozen dances with three different men, Jane floated on air. 

“Did you see Mikael when Stuart asked for the next song?!” she squealed in the ladies room. "And Gendry, I never thought much of him, but when he pulled me close, I could feel how fit he is under that top. Purrrrrrrrrr.”

“Better make your choice soon,” Sansa warned, grinning. “Don’t want to break any hearts by leading them on.”

“Just one more round for posterity. I’ll know when I feel _it_.” Jane said brazenly, giggling with mischief. 

They went back out to the hopeful stares of Jane’s suitors when Sansa finally noticed her sore throat. Another hour of yelling and she’d be hoarse in the morning. 

“I need water!” 

Jane nodded and pranced into Stuart’s waiting arms. 

Jostling her way through the throng of bodies, she called for a glass of water, having to repeat herself three times to be heard. As she leaned on the bar top, she felt a hand reach up the underside of her dress. Acting on reflex, Sansa spun and slapped the pervert’s rosy cheeked face and gasped.

Gods no. It was Joffrey. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing!” he screamed, rubbing the hand print she’d tattooed on his face.

Rather than reply, she pushed her way out of the crowd and frantically searched the dance floor for Jane. She’d paused for less than a second, when he latched on to her wrist, twisting it. 

“Stop it!” she cried, and stamped on his foot.

He let go, hopping on one foot, and Sansa took the opening to slap his other cheek. 

“Don’t touch me!” she ordered and ran to the back of the club, seeking refuge in the girls bathroom. Texting Jane 911 for emergency, she waited for her friend, avoiding the stares of the women who noticed the unshed tears in her eyes. 

Disgusted, she wondered how he could do that and think it okay? What was worse was the hell she would hear from this. Cersei managed her father’s securities. She’d be furious when Joffrey told her what happened. His mother couldn’t withhold funds or trade without Catelyn’s consent, but she could make all their lives miserable with paperwork and delays. 

She texted Jane again. What was taking her so long? 

“You alright?” A woman asked, and Sansa was taken aback. She was gorgeous and strangely familiar. 

“I’m alright. Just…”

“Hiding?” she asked, her vibrant red lips framing a rich voice. 

“Yes.”

“What does he look like? I’ll do some reconnaissance.”

Sansa gave a small smile in thanks.

“A little shorter than me, blond hair, thin. I think he was wearing a short sleeved blue shirt.” 

“One moment.”

She returned a minute later, smirking delicately. 

“You’re safe. Are you here with someone?”

“My friend.”

“I’d go find her if I were you.”

“Thank you…”

“Margery.”

Margery Tyrell. Loras Tyrell’s sister. Sansa sputtered:

“Thank you Mrs. Tyrell.”

She chuckled, and it was like a song. 

“I thought you might be a student. Are you taking one of my brother’s classes?”

“No, but my friend is. She had quite a crush on him.”

“Of course she does. Nice to meet you -”

“Sansa.”

“Sansa, have a good evening.”

She sashayed out, and Sansa stuck her head out after her, double checking the hall to the restrooms. It was mercifully empty, and she slid by the door taking the exit to the alley on the side of the building. She’d call Jane to come up front and -

Grasping for the door before it clicked shut, her neck was wrenched painfully by a harsh grip on her hair. 

Joffrey had also come to the alley looking to make a quick call, and he pounced at the opportunity to have her alone. 

“You think you can hit me and get away with it?” he hissed in her ear. He pulled her this way and that, disrupting her balance. “I’ll make you pay for it. Get on your knees, bitch.”

Sandor was having an unexpectedly good time. He hadn’t laughed this hard in years. The cocksucker had gone after some twat, and she’d slapped him not once, but twice. He’d almost pissed himself cackling seeing the look on the runts face. For once he was glad to be Joffrey’s nanny. Nothing was better than watching the dumb wanker fail. 

But that had been fifteen minutes ago, and the little parasite still hadn’t surfaced, and the girl was missing as well. 

Fuck. The fun was over. Time to protect the Lannister name from the sadistic deeds of the half-wit. 

Scouring the dance floor, he didn’t see heads or tails of either. The bar was the same. He checked the men’s bathroom thinking to find Joffrey pouting in a corner, but the stalls were all vacant. He started to head back to the dancefloor for a second look when he got a nagging sensation. Glancing around, he saw nothing amiss. Shrugging, he dismissed it, and in a single stride, the fluorescent light overhead flickered off. Strange...he thought, cocking an eye at the bulb. Dubious, he took a second step and another light went out. He stepped back. The light buzzed to life. He stepped forward, and it went out. 

This is fucking nuts, he growled in his head and made it three steps before tripping over...nothing. But he was sure his foot had smacked something. The pestering sensation ramped up, spreading through his body like ice. The exit sign glowed bright like the signal of a flare.

The alley.

Sandor punched the bar on the door and turned his head to the sound of a girl crying. 

“Please, Joffrey,” she held onto the hand tangled in her head, tears streaming from her eyes. “Let me go.” 

“Dog,” he said with a vicious grin, “look what I’ve got. Come hold her and I’ll give her to you when I’m done.”

She whimpered and tried to stand. This couldn’t be happening.

Joffrey slapped her with an open palm, knocking off her wobbly feet. 

“Don’t like that, do you bitch?! Too bad, I owe you another,” and he raised his hand to strike her again. 

Sansa closed her eyes, but the blow never came. 

Sandor made a split second decision, catching the fucker’s arm in mid air. 

“What are you doing, Dog? Release me.”

Instead, his grip tightened like a vice, and Joffrey squirmed at the sensation of his ulna and radial bones grinding together. 

“Stop it! STOP IT!” 

“Let her go,” Sandor muttered darkly.

“You have to do what I say!”

“Shut it,” he said, his nose pressed to Joffrey’s. “I’m not your dog, I’m your mothers. And one more word out of you and she’ll hear about your Saturdays with Trant.” He had the fucker's attention now. “Wouldn’t want her to know where your pocket money goes, would you? Or the sick shit you pay extra for.”

Quivering, Joffrey dropped his hold on Sansa and she stumbled to her feet, backing against the wall for support. 

“Now run the fuck home.”

Joffrey almost fell over when Sandor let go, staggering his way to the end of the alley. 

Sandor kept an eye on him until he was out of sight and then reluctantly turned his gaze to the girl. He recognized her. She was the girl with the knee pad. The one who looked at him as if he were feral. 

He sighed. Time to clean up the mess. 

Approaching slowly with hands raised, he didn’t want to spook her anymore than she was. 

“It would be best,” he rasped softly, “if everyone forgot about tonight. Understand?”

She nodded. That was good. 

“You hurt?”

Sansa shook her head, wiping her face. 

“Good. You got someone to give you a ride home?”

Another nod.

“Go get them and get outta here.”

Satisfied, he turned his back when he felt her gentle touch on his arm.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice a thin whisper.

Eyes like glacial melt peered up at him as she tried to say more, but the words wouldn’t come. She settled for squeezing his calloused hand. 

“Go home girl,” he muttered, “and stay the fuck away from Joffrey.”

Sansa didn’t need to be told twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading along. Let me know what you think. Always happy for feedback.


	5. V

V

“Jane, you’re smothering me,” Sansa said from the suffocating embrace of her friend. 

Mace in hand, her friend had charged blindly into the alley seconds after Sandor had gone. Guilt stricken for missing the 911 texts, she stitched herself to Sansa for the next three days, needlessly paying a penance by fetching glasses of water, doing chores, and making pancakes for dinner. The only thing she hadn’t done was help Sansa pack - if anything, she obstructed her, lying on the suitcase like a passive aggressive cat. 

Standing in the doorway of their apartment, they said a final goodbye for the summer. Happily, Jane had found not one, but two distractions, in Mikael and Stuart, both of whom had college internships to keep them in the city. Gendry alone hadn’t risen to the challenge. 

“One more minute,” Jane answered, arms constricting tighter than the coils of a boa. 

“It’s not as if this is really goodbye. I’ll be back in no time.” 

“Three months!" 

“Not even. A measly eleven weeks.”

She crushed the air out of Sansa’s lungs. 

“Come back for August. You don’t have to stay the whole summer.”

“My mom would disagree, and she’s paying for my ticket.”

“Mothers are so selfish.”

Sansa patted her back. 

“I know. I know. But you’ll have eleven weeks with Stuart and Mikael and no pesky  roommate to interrupt...things.” 

She sniffed. 

“I guess.”

“And you have to call me after each date and give me the details.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll have so much fun you’ll hardly miss me.”

“Will too,” Jane moped, but loosened her hold enough to let Sansa breathe.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Too bad, I’m calling you tonight and you’d better pick up.”

With one last hug for the road, Sansa pulled her rolling suitcase behind and took the elevator to the lobby. Jon looked pointedly at her and tapped his watch.

“We said eight, not eight-oh-nine.”

“Oh, hold on. I forgot something upstairs,” she spun around, laughing when she heard his impatient groan. “Just kidding.”

On the flight home to Winterfell, Sansa plugged in her headphones and closed her eyes, listening to the eclectic collection of music on her phone, his scarred face imprinted on the inside of her eyelids. Inhabiting her thoughts, she saw him in her dreams, vacillating from furious and vicious, to formidable white knight in disguise. Pinned by her hair, she’d panicked seeing him enter the alley that night, sure he was there to do Joffrey’s bidding. That’s what croney’s were for, wasn’t it? Even after he’d sent Joffrey away with tail tucked, her flabbergasted brain stalled out, sluggish to reconcile the man’s actions with his grisly appearance. Looking back, he’d been kind in his approach. Unlike their first encounter, his expression was stolid, calming, like a warm blanket after an icy plunge in the river. His scars were less fearsome, his motions, reassuring. She wished she knew who he was so she could send...what? What did you send to a man who’d rescued you in an alley? A crisp bacon bouquet? The idea was absurd. If she were wise, she’d keep away from any man employed by the Lannisters. 

Oh, Gods, Sansa’s eyes opened wide. What if he’d been fired for helping her? A sickening bile creeped up the back of her throat. She took a deep breath and prayed silently for the gods not to allow a good deed to be punished.

Summer went by in a flurry of celebrations. There was a feast for the homecoming, a party for Arya’s highschool graduation, and a family night out for Sansa’s twentieth birthday. Rickon and Brandon seemed to have doubled in height, and they regaled her with pictures they’d colored in crayon, class projects, and new toys from last Christmas. Jane called every other day with news of her dates and her ranking system for the boys, scoring them by body, personality, and willingness to please her. Her days as a virgin appeared to be numbered.

In August, the dry heat drove her family indoors. They played board games and video games and games made up by Brandon and Rickon. Once the sun set, casting orange and red hues in the sky, Jon set up the projector and Robb strung up a bed sheet, and they watched movies off the back patio, scarfing pizza and whole jugs of soda. 

Summer came and went, and a week prior to their flight, Sansa fessed up to her sister as they swung on the painted porch swing. 

“Do you remember my friend Jane, the one that lived with me last year?”

“Which one? Jane, your best friend? Amazing Jane? Jane who is, like,  _ so sweet _ ?” she mocked her sister. “Yeah, I think you mentioned her once or twice.”

“Shut up,” Sansa replied, “because she’s your new flatmate.”

“What?! No, Sansa, no! Come on. Isn’t it bad enough I have to live with you - again!”

“You’ll have your own room. Jane can bunk with me.”

It was the only solution she could think of since she’d chickened out breaking the news to her friend. 

“I’d rather live with Jon and Robb.”

“I’ll go ask mom -” Sansa leaped up, ecstatic. 

“Hold it, Redhot.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Gingersnap?”

“Or that.”

“Twizzler?”

“Arya!”

“I don’t want to live with one of  _ your _ friends. She’ll be annoying and needy like you. Can’t you get rid of her? No way she wants a roommate if she’s dating. How’s she supposed to get laid with you snoring three feet away?”

“I don’t snore!”

“Gods Sansa, like a chainsaw!” 

This was getting off to a good start, Sansa mused. 

“Look, you’re right, she probably won’t like it. But I’d rather it be her choice to move out than kick her out with no place to go.”

Arya pondered this, fixing her sister with a shrewd smile.

“So you’re telling me, I just need to ‘encourage’ her to find her own place?”

“No, you devious little gnome -” Sansa rubbed her temples. Of all her siblings, she got on the worst with Arya. “We need to give her time. Time to figure out a new living arrangement once she gets tired of ours.”

“My way’s faster.”

“I’ll tape you up in a sneaker box you hobgoblin.”

“With your chicken wing arms? Pfft.”

She, Arya, Jon, and Robb boarded the plane that Saturday, the deciduous plants showing the first tinges of color change heralding fall. They split up on arrival, Jon and Robb in one cab, Arya and Sansa in another, with plans to text to get together next weekend. 

As much as she’d enjoyed her summer, Sansa sighed happily when she saw their complex. She’d message Jane two days ago and hadn’t heard back, and again at the airport when they landed. Knowing her friend, she’d lost her charger again. Sansa couldn’t wait to surprise her. 

In the elevator with Arya, Sansa lectured:

“We divide the chores equally. You have to do your part.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I mean it. And you’d better be nice to Jane.”

“Who?” she teased.

The sliding doors pinged opening onto the stark hallway lined with carpet prematurely aged by the trampling feet of residents dragging mud and dirt in on their shoes. 

“Seriously, give her a chance. You’ll like her if you make half an effort.”

“Chill, Cherry Pop.”

At the door to the apartment, Sansa fished her keys out from her pocket.

“We both know your twisted sense of humor. Cutting someone to pieces so you can  have a laugh.”

She swung the door open and her keys tumbled out of her hands. 

The living room was covered in carnage, bloody splash and slash marks, mists sprays, and pools of thick coagulated blood, and in the middle of it all, a mutilated body, skinned and sticky from fluids, open eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling. It sat in one of the plush dining room chairs, arms and legs tied to the wood with black wire. 

Sansa and Arya froze, rendered dumb by the gory visual and the stink of rot. Flies buzzed over the body, crawled on the eyes and in and out of the mouth. 

Stunned, Sansa stared at the hairy left knee. A scalped pixie cut hung from the joint like  a wig. 

She screamed. 


	6. VI

VI

Down in the building’s barebones lobby, Arya sipped tea from the trembling paper cup in her hands. An urgent need to move, to do something, run, scream, hit, kick, clashed against the obligation to sit still and answer the officers questions. Her sister sure as hell couldn’t do it. 

Sansa, staring blankly in shock, hadn’t spoken a word since they’d found Jane. 

“Do you know your flight number so we can verify your arrival?” Jaime Lannister asked, his partner, Brienne occupying the seat at his side. 

Arya pulled out her ticket stub from the airport. 

“She had the seat next to me,” she gestured to Sansa. “You guys can look that up, right?”

“Yes,” he nodded, and tried to gain Sansa’s attention. “I know you’re grieving, but it helps if we collect information up front. Small details we forget with time can make or break a case.”

She blinked, her eyes passing right through him. 

Arya gripped her sister’s hand. 

“Sansa?”

Brienne, silent so far through the interview, stood and sat on Sansa’s left. In her hand was a photograph of Jane, her highschool graduation photo, taken from the dead girl’s room. She held it up for Sansa to see. 

“She was a beautiful girl.”

Licking dry lips, the fog lifted it’s veil from her vision as she took in the unmolested image of her friend, wearing a pink summer dress. She huffed as her tears obscured her sight and swallowed a sob. That dress was hanging in the closet upstairs. 

“I can see how much you loved her,” Brienne went on. “She looks like she was a happy person.”

Sansa nodded, grimacing, muted by a clenched jaw and building pressure in her throat as she fought to repress a lament. 

“We need to catch whoever did this, Sansa. This is the third murder in six months. It won’t stop until we find them.”

The memory of flashing blue lights the morning of their finals floated across Sansa’s mind. 

“You were close to her. You knew her past times, her hopes, her secrets. Something she said or did, a new habit or behavior, new friends, boyfriends, a change in her schedule, we need you to tell us everything, because somewhere in the last days of her life is the clue leading to the monster who murdered her.”

“She was seeing two boys,” she started, her voice cracking. 

Jaime flipped to a new page on a scratch pad. 

“Mikael and Stuart.”

“Last names?” Brienne asked, encouraging her to go on. 

“I’m not sure,” Sansa answered. “She told me, I know she did, but I can’t remember.” 

She closed her eyes and tears spilled over the edge of her eyelids. 

“That’s okay. Where did she meet them?”

“At a club -” her lips formed a thin line, the name of the club on the tip of her tongue. “The Nightwatch, but they went to school with us too. I recognized them from campus.”

“Age?”

“Twenty, twenty-one, I think,” and she described each boy in turn. 

“This is great information Sansa,” Brienne reassured her. “Did she mention any problems with either boy? Any jealousies or fights?”

“No, she seemed happy. The worst date she mentioned was to an all-you-can-eat buffet with Stuart, but she kept dating him after that.”

“Was she more serious about one than the other?”

“I think she was leaning toward Mikael, but no, nothing serious. She just sounded like she was having fun.”

“When was the last time you spoke with her?"

“I texted her a couple of days before we flew out, to let her know what time we’d be here. She didn’t reply.”

“Was that usual?”

“No, she always answers my texts, unless her phone dies. I thought, maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

“It’s...well, private." 

“That’s exactly the information we need to hear,” Jaime affirmed, glancing up from his notepad. 

It felt like a betrayal to her friend, giving away information gained in confidence.

“Sansa, whatever it is, we need to know. It could be completely irrelevant, or absolutely vital, and we won’t know which if you don’t tell us.” Brienne took Sansa’s hand holding the picture, using Jane’s photo to compel her. “Her suffering is over. The only person who benefits from Jane’s secrets staying a secret, is the person who killed her.”

Worn down by guilt, Sansa capitulated.   


“She was considering which one she might like to...sleep with -” Sansa hesitated, trying to read the officer’s unreadable expressions - “for  _ her _ first time.”

“She was a virgin?” Brienne asked plainly and Sansa nodded. Jaime and Brienne exchanged meaningfully looks. “Do you know if she went through with it?”

“No,” she shook her head. “Not when we last talked. Does that mean something?” Sansa asked them both. 

Brienne leaned forward on broad forearms, and for a half a second, Sansa was taken aback by the vivid blue of sapphire irises. 

“It identifies a common link between the victims. Two could be a coincidence. Three and the chances of pure coincidence are nominal. Sansa, who else knew Jane was a virgin?”   
“I can’t think of anyone else she would have told. She wasn’t exactly proud of it.”

“Okay, did she have other friends she might have confided in this summer, other girls she got on with?”

“We hung out with Yara, uh - Yara Greyjoy, once in a while. She’s a nursing student and she doesn’t get out much. I don’t know if she spent the summer here and Jane never mentioned her when we spoke.”

“Anyone else?”

Sansa was at a loss. 

“Jane was friendly. It’s possible she made a new friend while I was gone, but she told me everything. I would’ve thought she’d mention a new friend.”

“Anything else you can think of Sansa? Anything strange or odd in her behavior or something she said that didn’t seem right at the time?”

“Nothing. She seemed happy," she repeated.   


Both officers stood. 

“Thank you,” Brienne handed her a card. “If you think of anything else, call. We may follow up with you later if we have more questions.”

She nodded her head numbly and she and Arya watched them go.

“What are we supposed to do now?”

Arya threw an arm over her shoulder.

"I can tell you what we're not doing.  We're not going back to that apartment."

  
  


The cab pulled up next to a shabby brick building situated in the manufacturing district. The university was a scant three blocks away. No worse than the last apartment, but the grungy streets, poorly lit, were devoid of foot traffic. There were no shops, no shaded sidewalks, or any signs of life in the twilight hours. 

Arya leaped out, waving for Sansa to join her on the gray pavement.

“No -” Sansa shook her head, “you must have the wrong address.”

“Take a look yourself, “Arya thrust her phone with the listing screen up. 

“Okay, not the wrong address, just the wrong neighborhood. We’re not living here.”

“You haven’t even seen it yet.”

“I don’t need to.”

The cab driver volubly groaned, rubbing a hand over a toothbrush mustache. 

“In or out ladies?”

“In.”

“Out." 

“Arya! Remember those train tracks we went over?”

“So what?”

“We’re on the wrong side of them.”

“Snob,” Arya rolled her eyes. “We can’t live in the hotel forever. Mom wants us in a new apartment or back home. Seeing how she won’t let me live by myself after what happened, you’re staying because I’m staying. There’s no other listings unless we want to commute for an hour.”

“I’m open to that.”

“Without a car? You want to ride public transportation to and from school?”

Her sister shifted in the back seat, biting her lip. 

“An hour sitting next to complete strangers and their B.O., you’re open to that?”

Sansa’s eyes flickered wearily back to the dilapidated brick building. 

“Why don’t we take a look,” Arya said, taking her hand and pulling her out of the cab, “and then we can decide whether we’re interested or if we would rather be flashed by weirdos using the bus as a toilet.” 

“Eloquent.”

“I know.”

Reluctantly, Sansa got out while Arya paid the edgy cabbie. 

“Come back for us in twenty?”

He revved the engine and drove off without replying. 

“Uber it is.”

Arya’s laughter petered out at the scathing look on Sansa’s face. 

“Relax, sis,” she said, dragging her sister after her by her sleeve. “The guy’s waiting for us, let’s go.”

Inside a small foyer through an unmarked door, office furniture had been crammed inside a janitor’s closet. A man reclined in a chair with his soiled boots propped up on the desk, his eyes were wild, like a man who hadn’t seen civilization in years, with a blond mop of hair that ran straight off his head forming a thick thatch of a beard. He smirked and Sansa wanted to run. 

“You the Starks?”

“Yeah,” Arya said, admiring a clunky revolver precariously balanced on the edge of his desk. “I’m Arya, and this is my sister, Sansa.”

“Kissed by fire,” he crooned, his every action and word blunt. Swinging his feet to the floor he shimmied out of the closet. “I’ve always wondered what that would be like,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows at Sansa. 

“Easy Romeo, this one’s skittish,” Arya pressed him back. “We’ll see the apartment, and  _ nothing _ else.” 

“Oh, aye. Let’s go then.”

He introduced himself as Tormund and he was an incorrigible flirt. Broadcasting his thoughts like a billboard he was easy to read, and it quickly became clear he was a harmless, yet quirky man. 

“He looks like a wilding,” Sansa whispered when she thought he was out of ear shot. 

“Only on me mother’s side,” he answered, boisterous.

“And your dad?” Arya asked.

“A fucking bear! Can’t you tell?” He said, stroking his dense beard. “Me mother was the bravest fucking woman in the world. No man could please her, so she went out to the woods and nabbed herself a great grizzly bear, fucked it, then took its hide for my swaddling blanket.”

Arya grinned so wide she split her face into two. 

Sansa’s mouth fell open. 

“I wasn’t prepared for that.”

“That’s what the bear said!”

They climbed an old linoleum covered staircase to the second floor where a pair of doors  paralleled a short landing. 

“There’s just the one neighbor, no one else in the building at night -” Tormund slammed the key in the lock and the door creaked open on dry hinges. 

They stuck their heads around the cooky landlord and their eyes bulged. Despite the decrepit and grimy exterior of the building, the interior of the apartment was pristine and astonishingly large. 

“How many square feet?” Sansa queried. 

“Twenty-five hundred.”

Arya ran in, spinning to see everything at once. Sansa slipped wordlessly by  Tormund, careful to maintain an arm’s distance from the man flexing his biceps unsubtly. 

Everything was new. New fixtures, new flooring, new paint, and new cabinets. Whatever had been there before had been gutted. There were granite countertops, built in bookshelves in the living room, window seats in the bedrooms, and best yet, two separate bathrooms with walk-in showers. 

“There’s no way we can afford this,” Sansa hissed at her sister as the passed by in the  hallway.”

“How much, Tormund?” Arya yelled.

“One night with the redhead and it’s yours!” he boomed from the kitchen.

“And if we’re not into prostitution?”

“You chose the wrong fuckin’ neighborhood!”

“Come off it. What’s the rent on this place?”

They joined him in the kitchen, facing him across the island bar. 

He eyed them with a bushy brow raised as high as his hairline, as if trying to read their minds before he fixed a price.

“Two-”

Sansa and Arya flinched.

“Oneeee,” he said at length, and Arya gestured him to go on - “thousand, eight-”

They flinched again.

“One thousand, six hundred, and not a penny less.”

“A thousand and two-fifty,” Arya countered.

“Fifteen hundred, and I’m giving it away.”

“Thirteen hundred or we walk.”

“Thirteen-fifty.”

“Wave the deposit and you’ve got a deal.”

“The fuck is a deposit?” he bellowed, laughing. 

They signed paperwork and on the way back to the hotel, Arya leaned her head on 

Sansa’s shoulder.

“He’s either the worst or the best landlord in town.”


	7. VII

VII

Robb and Jon hated the new apartment, until they went in. Salivating at the amount of space, they immediately offered, as ‘responsible’ older brothers, to trade apartments with Sansa and Arya. 

“What? No way,” Arya frowned.

“You’ll be closer to school,” Jon futilely appealed to his youngest sister. 

“And in a safer neighborhood,” added Robb. “In fact, I bet if we told mom, she’d insist that you two have our apartment.”

“Nice try, jackasses. This place is ours. Go find your own bitchin’ lair.”

“Lair?” Sansa grinned.

“Whatever Red, we’ll agree on a name for it later.”

“Sansa, you’re the sensible one,” Robb said, sidling up to her. They were practically the same height. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable walking to our place than here after school?”

“No,” she smiled shrewdly, “because I’m going to take your advice and call mom.”

“Sansa!” Arya yelled, throwing a fit. 

“Arya, mom will be so pleased to hear that Robb and Jon agreed to walk us home every day to make sure that we’re safe.” 

Arya high-fived her older sister while Jon and Robb contemplated the loss of their short term fantasy bachelor pad. 

And so it went, Jon and Robb took turns walking them home after classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Tuesdays were the only days Sansa ventured home alone. Her weekly political science class ended at seven-thirty. She texted Arya when she got out and sprinted the half-mile from school to the front entry foyer where a locked door separated her from imaginary stalkers. 

Living with Arya turned out to be how Sansa visualized living with Robb or Jon. She didn’t help with laundry, cooking, or cleaning, and in six weeks, her room looked like a scene from Hoarders. 

Sansa tied the strings on the kitchen garbage bag and hefted it out of the compactor. Craving brownies, Arya had trashed the countertops and sink, an unholy mess of eggshells, milk spills, flour dust, and an alarming stack of dirty dishes for a single batch of tray bakes. She’d eaten herself sick and passed out on the couch late last night. Sansa slammed the compactor shut, hoping it woke her roommate up, and stormed out the door to throw out the trash on her way to school. 

She stopped on the landing, locking the deadbolt with her key, and quietly passed by their neighbor’s apartment. They still hadn’t met the only other person who lived in the building with them. All they could be certain of was that whoever it was kept odd hours by the sound of the door opening and closing in the predawn hours of morning and waking them from sleep late at night.

In the late fall of November, Sansa hugged her coat to her chest, bracing against the cold wind. The gray skies overhead threatened rain. An apple green umbrella swung loosely from her wrist and she wondered if it would be any use in the rain. 

On Tuesdays her schedule began in History of Westeros at eight-thirty, then Calculus at ten forty-five, Advanced Composition at one P.M., and finally, Poli-Sci at five. She sipped coffee through the day to stay from a thermos and snacked on crackers and hummus. In the afternoon, between her english course and poli-sci, she hid in the stacks at the library. 

Ramsey had a knack for popping up wherever she went. It had started innocuously, bumping into her outside of her math class during the first week of school, then finding him behind her in line at the cafeteria. She never saw him coming, he was unusually quiet, expertly evading detection until he had breached her space, standing uncomfortably close. If he smiled to put her at ease, he failed miserably. His smile troubled her more than his proximity. He smiled as if he were both furious and excited, like the smile of a great white shark as it lunges for a seal. Lately, he seemed to be everywhere she was, her sole refuge, the company of her brothers and sister. She’d taken to the three story library, never choosing the same spot, and studied in peace on the floor, spreading her books and papers in a circle around her. 

Poli-sci was taught by none other than Peter Baelish, the notorious campaign manager turned professor following a scandalous fall from grace. Publicly, he’d been ousted from the political arena when he was caught having an affair with an opponent’s wife, milking her for information in and out of the bedroom. Privately, he’d been implicated in human trafficking of underage girls, escaping prosecution based on a technicality. On good terms with the Lannisters, he finagled a job at the school and it was rumored he habitually dated his students. 

He extended an open invitation for her to come by his office for tutoring and since then, she took the seat next to the door and exited as soon as they were dismissed. 

Tonight was no different. Mr. Baelish leered salaciously at the women, not sparing a glance for male students, and with an affected nonchalance, strolled to Sansa’s desk and sat on the edge. 

“Assigned reading is chapter eight and nine, and for homework you are to complete all chapter questions. Remember, homework must be typed and submitted with name, date, and class number.” Desks scraped the floor as students pushed out of their seats. “Sansa, may I have a minute of your time?”

“I’m so sorry,” she answered, scooping up her bag. “I need to get to the restroom. Lady’s issue.” Bright red, she fled. Sansa hadn’t used her period as an excuse since she was thirteen. 

Texting Arya she was on her way home, she slung her purse and bag over her neck and beelined for the crosswalk. The night air was crisp and refreshing compared to the stuffy warmth of the classroom. Folding her arms on her chest, she checked for traffic and crossed the street. Half a mile, less than ten minutes. Sansa took a deep breath and walked. 

  
  


Sandor drove with one hand on the wheel and drained his water bottle. It’d been a long fucking day with the Lions, then again, time slowed to a crawl in Cersei’s presence. 

The daft cunt was overwhelmed without the sense to fucking know it. She chased away reputable clients and their gold with her increasingly erratic decisions and had a tenuous grasp of the stock market at best. Thirty-two million lost just yesterday afternoon when shares of Q-tech, run by Qyburn, the supposed medicinal genius, dropped fifteen points, the good doctor arrested for suspected murder, assault, and illegal experimentation, permanently tarnishing the reputation of his company. 

Things were going so poorly, Cercei, typically haughty and supercilious, begrudgingly brought in her father. Sandor listened to the sage advice the old Midas gave to his daughter. It was useless. He recommended establishing a board of directors composed of industry leading professionals and provided a list of names of former colleagues and acquaintances. Sandor could have laughed in the old man’s face. A board would mean Cercei would have to relinquish total control of the business. Fat chance in Hell, Sandor scoffed. 

There’d been threats as even sleazy investors sensed the waters rising up to her neck. They wanted to pull their money from the fund and Cercei delayed or ignored their requests. She and Joffrey continued to rack up bills she couldn’t afford and she’d had Sandor rough up a creditor goon sent to collect on a debt. It’d been kinda funny, answering the door and watching the tough guy act evaporate off the goon’s face as he got a good look up at Sandor’s scarred complexion. People thought any random asshole could do the job so long as they looked big and scary. There were few pleasures that came with the job. Beating up knuckle walkers was one of them. 

He turned left at the stoplight, cutting through a side street and steering out of game night traffic surrounding the college. Fucking college kids. Bunch of privileged cunts. 

The radio played eighties rock and he tapped his thumb on the steering wheel to the beat of ACDC’s Dirty Deeds, knowing full well no dirty deed he ever did came cheap. 

Riding down South Fifth street, ACDC's chorus was buried under coarse static. Sandor fingered the knob, decreasing the volume. The row of warehouses were causing interference. 

Drops of rain hit his windshield and he flicked on the windshield wipers, jumping at the sudden blast of the radio. The volume had gone back up and the display dialed up and down through the stations, blaring static one moment and snippets of music the next. 

“...Help, I need somebody…” sang the Beatles for a half a verse before the station dialed again. “...I need a hero!...” Bonnie Tyler chimed in. “...Come on baby, and rescue me…” came Fontella’s voice from an oldies station. 

Sandor punched the radio off. The silence was deafening. A knot in his stomach tightened as a cold chill swept the back of his neck and he glanced over his shoulder at the empty back seat. Watched. That’s what he felt. 

He swept his eyes to the rearview mirror and slammed on his breaks, swerving to the side of the road. Pallor draining the color from his skin, he rotated mechanically in his seat, holding his breath and reaching for his gun. The back window, black leather seat, and a car magazine. That was it. 

But he’d seen _it_ , whatever _it_ was. 

There was a frantic rap on the passenger door. He looked out the window and standing on the curb was Deja Vu in the flesh, red hair sopping wet. She opened the door, and he saw her fear.

Trembling, she pleaded:

“Please help.”


	8. VIII

VIII

Sansa hated the trek between Sixth Street and their apartment on Fourth. Unlike the bright college walkways and the illuminated sidewalks to the north, street lamps were sparse in the manufacturing district. Why waste energy lighting streets scarcely in use at night? She reverted to childhood logic, running from the safety of one lamppost to the next. 

Waiting at the stoplight for the signal to cross, her skin began to crawl and goosebumps broke out on her arms. She glanced up and down the street. She was alone. Then why did it feel as if someone were watching her? 

The signal changed from a red hand to a green “go” and she hastily jogged from one end of the crosswalk to the other, eyes darting this way and that. Sansa turned to check that she wasn’t being followed and bit her lip. It was her imagination, that’s all, she reasoned, but sped up her pace even so. 

_Two more blocks. Two more blocks. Two more blocks._

The sound of a shoe scuff on cement stopped her in her tracks. Slowly she pivoted.

There was an alley to her right and a bus stop to her left. She could see nothing to justify the sound. 

Pupils dilated, heart racing, mouth dry, she called out:

“Hello?”

She hated the weak sound of her voice, dissipating into the darkness. 

A spattering of rain dampened the skin of her face and Sansa went for her umbrella no longer attached to her wrist. She’d forgotten it in Baelish’s class. Less concerned with the weather, she regretted the loss of it as she searched her things for any other items she could use in her defense. 

Her Calculus book outweighed all her other books combined. Brandishing it as a shield, she took one last look back and ran. At first, her ears heard just the sounds of her breathing and the tread of her tennis shoes on the pavement, but as she reached the next light, she heard a noise like a person tumbling to the ground, a muffled curse verifying someone out there with her, unseen. 

The sky opened and rain poured down in sheets, creaking such a ruckus she couldn’t hear herself or anyone else. A truck drove by and she frantically waved for it to stop. It didn’t slow and she raced to catch it at the red light up ahead. As it happened, the vehicle pulled over, slamming it’s brakes. Sansa sprinted the last few yards, mind already working on a plan. She needed a witness to stay with her until Robb or Jon could come get her. 

Peering in through the passenger window, she gaped. It was him. Sansa rapped her knuckles on the glass.  _ Please, please, please, please,  _ she inwardly begged from him to hurry up and open the door. 

He appeared stunned, his arms and shoulders were tense. His colossal body was halfway turned in his seat, as if he’d been looking for something in the back. He stared at her with recognition in his eyes and she pulled on the door handle, unable to wait any longer. 

“Please help,” she pleaded. 

His mouth opened, then closed, and his eyes shot out the back windows, looking for  some sign of what bothered her. 

Taking a chance on his previous act of kindness, Sansa tossed her books and bags on the floor of the front seat and climbed in and slammed the door shut. With the thud of the door, a wave of relief washed over her and she began to shake from the cold and the rapid decrease in adrenaline pumping through her veins. 

Sandor observed the soaked girl who’d invited herself into his truck and rubbed his temples. He didn’t want to deal with this or the fucking poltergiest shit. She didn’t look at him, didn’t offer an explanation, and he realized she was nervously waiting to see if he meant to kick her back out to the curb. Grumbling, he undid the fly on his jacket, removing it and draping it on her shoulders. 

“Thank you,” she said, finally looking him in the eye. 

“Spare the thanks. What the fuck are you doing in my truck?”

Cowering at his tone, her gaze dropped to the mud mat.

Fuck. 

“What’s your name, girl?” he rasped, lowering his voice. 

“Sansa.”

She raised her head slightly. 

He sighed, shifted the truck into drive.

“Where to?” 

She guided him the final block and half to her building where he parked directly in front  of the office foyer. 

Sandor lowered his head, scrutinizing the shabby exterior. Skeptical, his single brow cocked up.

“Here?”

“Yes, thank you.” Sansa peeled off his jacket when he gently gripped her shoulder.

“This ain’t the sorta place to be after dark.”

“It’s okay, really.” She said with a small smile. “I have an apartment inside. Just looks a bit cruddy from here.”

“You gonna explain why you’re in my truck?”

Wringing her hands in her lap, she nibbled her lip. 

“Wasn’t the little cunt again, was it?”

She shook her head.

“I think someone was following me. I heard noises.”

He chuckled, itching his beard. Sansa looked up, confused at what could be funny.

“You heard noises and I’m seeing things.” 

The windshield wipers thumped back and forth, back and forth, clearing away the blurry waves of water cascading from the roof of the truck. In the silence, she studied him out of the corner of her eyes. He was as big as she remembered, filling the driver’s seat as if it were built for a child and not a grown man. Tied neatly out his face were long strands of wavy black hair. The scars didn’t phase her as they had before. They were a part of him, as much as his nose and his eyes. 

“What did you see?” she asked tentatively. 

Sandor thought for a moment, the terrible visage permanently imprinted in his mind.

“Something that shouldn’t fucking exist.”

“Was it wearing a gray cloak?”

Fixing her with a penetrating look, he growled:

“You’ve seen it?”

“No, not really. Just glimpses. It started happening right after my dad died.”

“You’re fucking kiddin’ me?”

“No,” she replied sadly. “I thought maybe...but not anymore. You wouldn’t have been frightened of him.”

Sandor understood without asking. The girl had hoped it was her father.

“What I saw, it wasn’t human,” he said, shredding her last doubt. “It steered me into the alley that night.”

“Oh.” 

“Oh?” 

“Sorry,” Sansa apologized, “it’s just gratifying to know I’m not crazy.”

Grumbling, he gave a single nod and gazed at the black hood of his truck. 

“What’s your name?” she asked softly.

“What?”

“Your name?”

“S’not important. Go on, get.”

But she stayed, her hands bunched up in fists. 

“It’s important to me.”

“Why?”

“Because you saved me twice.”

He bent down, putting his face inches from hers. 

“I’m no knight, girl. I’m a dog, and a mean one at that.”

Expecting her to leap out the door, he froze as she wrapped her arms over his shoulders, embracing him tightly, tucking her head into his chest. She smelled vaguely like citrus and clung innocently to his body, bathing him in the warmth of her affection. Tilting her head to the side, she planted a chaste kiss on his ruined cheek and let go. 

Struck mute, he gaped, unable to comprehend what had happened.

From her purse she took out a scrap of paper and scribbled. 

“Do you like bacon?”

“What?”

“Nothing, never mind,” she laughed and handed the note to him. It was a phone number. “Um, just in case.”

“Just in case what?”

“In case you want to call me.”

He looked at the paper, then to her, then the paper again. Nope, he still didn’t get it. 

“I’d like to buy you a beer,” she took a stab at his preference, “as a thanks.”

Sandor flicked the note on the floor. 

“Fuck your thanks.  You don’t owe me anything, girl.”

“Sansa."

“Whatever.”

“What if I just wanted to see you again?"

“You’d be every bit as daft a cunt as Joffrey.”

She snorted, failing to contain a laugh, her cheeks a rosy pink, and he found himself smirking in spite of himself. 

“That’s pretty daft, isn’t it?”

“Aye.”

They grinned at each other and Sandor decided he liked the sound of her laugh. That’s when he knew she needed to get out. Familiarity was no friend to him. 

He pulled on the handle to the passenger door, trying not to stare at the wet shirt clinging to her breasts, and dove down to help her pick up her books. 

Sansa slid out and onto the sidewalk, her things in her arms.

“Go on,” Sandor waved her away. “Get inside.”

“Your name,” she said, holding the door. 

“Sandor.” 

He grabbed the door, closed it, and drove away, punching the steering wheel in anger. It had to be pity or some fucked up form of hero worship motivating her misplaced affections. With time he'd be no more than a mutt in her memory. 


	9. IX

IX

“Arya, quit pouting and let me see.”

“No, I hate it,” came a mumbled reply from the other side of the curtain.

“Fine,” Sansa said, throwing up her arms. “You clearly don’t need me. I’m leaving.”

“Wait -” Arya peaked out of the dressing room - “you can’t laugh.”

Her fierce sister, the girl who’d wrestled with her brothers, beat up boys in her class in grade school, and played varsity rugby through high school, shied from the world of fashion.

“Why would I laugh? It’s taken nineteen years to get you in a dress.”

She tugged the curtain aside in the same motion one would rip off a bandaid, revealing the modest cocktail dress Sansa had picked for her. 

“Stand up straight, arms at your sides.” 

Arya’s face twitched at the command, obediently dropping her arms and squaring her shoulders. 

“How’s the fit?”

“Binding.”

“Can you breathe?”

“Yes,” she ground out.

“Good. What do you think?” Sansa pointed to the standing mirror and she watched the uncertain look on sister’s face as she took in her reflection. Ever so subtly she snapped a photo with her phone.

“What was that?” Arya demanded.

“It’s for mom. You know how badly she’d want to be here for this.”

Rolling her eyes, her sister fidgeted in the dress. 

“I feel stupid.”

“You look pretty,” Sansa said, trying to build Arya’s confidence for her date. 

“Do I have to wear a dress?”

“No, but you can’t wear your sweatpants, a sweater, a jersey, a tee-shirt, your old jeans, or any of your work out clothes."

“He asked me out when I was in a tee-shirt.”

“That’s nice.” And it was, she admitted. Gendry had asked Arya out after one of their dance classes. She still couldn’t believe Arya had signed up for a semester of water dancing. What a strange thing to call synchronized swimming. 

“I want something I can be comfortable in.”

“Alright, alright. What about a blouse and a nice pair of pants?”

“That’s more like it,” Arya grinned, unzipping the dress before Sansa could snap the curtain shut. 

They found a suitable green tunic and a pair of black tights and were out of the store fifteen minutes later. 

“This is so much better than some crummy dress.” Arya motioned to a game store three doors down - “I need to pick up an expansion pack for The War of the Five Queens.” 

“Go ahead, I’ll meet you at the bookshop.”

Sevenmas was three short weeks away and shoppers pushed and shoved their way from store to store, jostling to get at sales and using bags and gift boxes as battering rams. Wrapped in a scarf and puffy jacket, Sansa zigzagged through the crowd on the sidewalk when a row of oblivious, chatty women blocked the path like a game of red rover. Looking for a way to get by the plump one on the end, her eyes landed on Sandor. He scowled at the hoard of Sevenmas shoppers, arms folded on his chest, standing guard outside a jewelry store. 

A hot chocolate vendor passed out paper mugs of cocoa, and Sansa handed him a coin before greeting Sandor.

“Hello.”

He ignored her as she stood there, pretending she didn’t exist. She should have known. 

He hadn’t called, he didn’t want to see her. 

“Merry Sevenmas, Sandor -” she held up the steaming cocoa. He stared over the top of her head, unresponsive and cold. She wilted, the message was clear. “It was nice seeing you again.” Sansa, placed the cup on the ledge of the jewelry store window and left under a cloud of rejection. 

Books, she thought, books would cheer her up. She’d finished Emma two days ago, and she needed a refill of literary distraction. 

Jane’s death had brought an end to her social life. Jon and Robb invited her and Arya out at least once a month, but Sansa preferred her bedroom, a book, and some tea. Bars, clubs, restaurants, there were too many places that reminded her of her friend. Her room had transformed into a cluttered library of stacked volumes she couldn’t bear to return, fictional retreats from a lonely reality.

Perusing the shelves she scanned titles and inhaled the wonderfully arid scent of paper. She’d already breezed through a large portion of the Agatha Christie mysteries, all of Stephen King, Ken Follett, Michael Crichton, Tolken, Douglas Adams, and Neil Gaimen. Her fingers brushed lovingly over book spines and she selected the first five of the Outlander series. 

“You read a lot?”

She spun at the sound of his rasp.

Sandor hovered a few feet away, cocoa in hand.

“I’m a glutton for books.”

“Hm.”

“You?”

He picked a book off the shelf at random and frowned at the picture on the cover, a romance novel with two lovers locked together in a passionate embrace.

“The last book I read was in high school. Some Shakespeare shit about a merchant.” He shoved the book back into place and passed her the mug. “I don’t drink the stuff. Too sweet.”

“Oh, so-”

“Don’t apologize,” he cut her off gruffly. 

She sipped the warm chocolate drink.

“I’m surprised they let you bring this inside.”

“When you look like I do, people keep their mouths shut. 'Cept you. Can’t seem to get rid of you.”

Sansa hid a grin. He didn’t sound overly upset about that. 

“You’re here with Cersei?”

“I was.”

“And now?”

“Now, I’m on break.”

“I didn’t think you wanted to see me.”

Slowly, almost timidly, he narrowed the gap separating them, towering over her. She blushed and looked up at him with a tender smile. He took a lock of her hair dangling in front of her face and tucked it behind her ear. 

“You don’t owe me a thing, understand?”

“Yes,” she said, biting her lip, heat rushing through her veins. The temperature in the bookshop rose as he neared and she unraveled her scarf.

“Still feeling daft?”

“Only around you.”

He smirked at that and bowed his head next to hers. 

“Saturday, six o’clock.”

She nodded, her heart skipping a beat. For a second, she was consumed by the insane notion he’d kiss her, but he stood up straight, smirking lop-sidedly, and departed, the bookshop bell ringing with the door. 

“Who the hell was that?” Arya yelled and Sansa jumped, spilling cocoa on the covers of her books. 

  
  


The week passed at the speed of turtle in oozing molasses. Teachers droned on and clock hands moved in slow motion. Sansa played their bookshop discussion on repeat in her head, agonizing over every word, every action. Was this a date? He hadn’t said so. Did she want it to be? He was older. But how much older? She didn’t know. Was that bad? Should she have asked? Plagued by a stream of unending questions running like a news ticker on TV, she couldn’t recall a thing any teacher had said during lectures and studying proved all but impossible. 

Sansa wanted to see him. It was more than his timely interventions, it was an uncanny and inexplicable attraction. That night in his truck, afraid and soaking wet, she’d hugged him in gratitude and kissed him on impulse. The pleasing sensation of his scarred flesh and coarse hair endured on her lips. Had he felt it? She couldn’t be sure. 

When Saturday arrived, time rebounded, the hours barreling forward impossibly fast. She showered and shaved every inch of her body and then questioned why. Sansa pushed the nerve wrecking thought out of her head. 

Hearing the commotion from her sister’s room, Arya poked her head in and quietly closed the door on Sansa’s anxiety fueled fervor. Clothes were strewn on the bed, on the mirror, on her desk, and the floor, and she paced back and forth, assessing her options. 

Settling on a casual ensemble of tight jeans and a soft cotton blouse, she wore her hair half up with her sparkling ivy comb. Sansa paused to check herself in front of the mirror and decided the outfit was wrong, all wrong, but as she returned to her closet, Arya pounded on the door.

“Sansa, the escaped convict is here to pick you up.”

“Arya,” she snapped, “shut it!” 

Sandor roared with laughter from the kitchen. 

“A real weirdo, Red. Good job.” She gave Sansa a thumb’s up and went into her bedroom, blasting her stereo at full volume. 

“I’m so sorry,” said Sansa, burning with embarrassment. She found Sandor resting against the kitchen countertop. 

“Your sister’s got a mouth.”

“Yep,” she answered dryly, and beaming at him from across the bar, she said a diffident hello, a nest of bees buzzing restlessly in her stomach. 

He’d showered and combed his wet hair into its signature knot, and the scent of his mild soap wafted to her nose.

There was an awkward lapse in conversation, and she drew near the bar.

“Ready?” he asked, splaying his palms on the cool granite, displaying the muscled upper half of his torso.

“You tell me,” she said and twirled. 

Sandor grazed her curves with his eyes, silently approving of her choice in snug fitting clothes.

“Aye,” he answered thickly. 

In the cab of his truck, the instilled manners of her upbringing forced their way to the surface. It was a lady’s prerogative to make polite conversation. 

“Uh, how was your week?” 

“Long.”

“Oh.”

“You?”

“Same.”

So much for small talk. 

He drove them to the east side of the city, a part of town she hadn’t visited before. There were older homes, some tidy, others in obvious disrepair. They passed a Walmart, a run-down outdoor grocery complex, and a donut shop converted into a barren laundromat. Sandor parallel parked the truck with the ease of a Mini Cooper at an unmarked building with it’s windows blacked out. 

While he fed the meter, Sansa evaluated their surroundings, her jacket zipped up to her chin. There was trash in the gutter, cigarette butts on the cement, and the other cars parked on the street were beat up and dented. The building itself had a wrought iron fence with a gate giving the impression that robberies were common. 

Sandor gestured to a set of double doors, brown paper taped on the inside of the glass. He opened the left and she stepped inside of what at first seemed to be an old pool hall, yelping at a heavy _thwack_ smacking hard from further back. Temporarily blind in the transition from daylight, she picked up on a chorus of cheers. 

“Two,” Sandor said, passing a bill to an employee manning the desk at the front. 

“Have fun,” said the attendant, polishing a - was that an axe? 

Sansa halted in place, pointing rudely, her mouth hanging open, utterly perplexed and in need of a gentle push forward.

Sandor led her with a steadying hand on her back to a wooden table and a pair of sticky benches. 

_THWACK!_

Her hand latched onto his shirt, her head rotating to a rowdy group of men at a stall, blocking the source of the noise from her view.

“Where are we?” she whispered, not letting him go. 

“Technically, a bar.”

“Technically?”

“Technically.”

“And not technically?”

“An axe throwing alley.”

_THWACK!_

Huddled to his side, she tried to see. Sandor stealthily snaked an arm around her waist.

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Axe throwing, not catching,” he teased in her ear, caressing her abdomen with his thumb. 

Sansa’s nerves fired on all cylinders feeling his breath on her neck and the smooth strokes of his calloused hand on her stomach. 

A busty waitress with dark make-up ambled over with jaunty grin. Her shirt read, “Wildings Bar and ‘Bowling’”.

“Hey there big man, it’s been a while. Who’s that hiding under your arm?”

“Sansa,” she piped up, introducing herself and flinched.

_THWACK!_

“First time I take it?”

Sansa nodded and asked: “Bowling?”

“Strictly speaking, axe throwing isn’t legal in this county. We’re licensed as a bowling alley. We kept some of the lanes just in case an inspector show’s up.”

Sure enough, at the very back of the building, four bowling lanes idled, unlit and unused. 

“One day we’ll convert those into more stalls. Can I get you two something to drink?”

“A pint of Gravedigger’s,” said Sandor and he and the waitress looked at Sansa.

“What do you have?”

The waitress cracked a grin. This wasn’t some hipster brewpub with a beer list. 

“Bring her an ale, sweet not bitter,” Sandor ordered on her behalf. The waitress winked at them and went to the bar for their drinks. “S'okay if you don’t like it."

_THWACK!_

The waitress dropped off their beers and circled to the next table over. 

Sandor threw back his stein, quaffing half the pint in three gulps. Sansa tipped hers and sipped at the foam. She’d had beer before and hadn’t enjoyed it, but this, she sipped and then lifted the glass with both hands, this was tasty, like drinking liquid bread with a hint of honey. 

“Good?” asked Sandor. 

“Mmhmm,” she answered with her mouth full. 

He wiped the foam from under her nose with his sleeve and Sansa swallowed a painfully large mouthful of beer as she noticed his eyes on her lips. 

_THWACK!_

Gods, she winced, was she ever going to get used to that?

Sandor took her stein and set it down on the table.

“Want to try?”

“Uh -” her mouth fumbled with her brain for an excuse.

He stood and put out his hand for her to take. 

Gods, Sandor thought as she pressed her delicate hand in his, had he ever held hands with a woman? So far, she’d been remarkably resilient to his touch, tolerating his clumsy paws and leaning into his body. Problem was, the more he explored, the more he craved. He’d have to release his pent up energy on splintering the wooden target.

An axe was posted on rungs on the inside of the alley and chain link fencing enclosed and divided the individual rows, a protection against the occasional butter-finger. 

Sandor grasped the axe by the handle.

“Grip it firm, but not tight,” he said, demonstrating a proper hold. She took a step back and to the side as he stretched out his arm, wound up and threw the axe with shocking strength and a speed she wouldn't have guessed from his size, hitting the center of the target. 

He retrieved it, pulling it free from where it was embedded in the wood, and presented it to her by the handle. 

She hesitated and he swiftly swept behind her, placing the weighty axe in the sweating palm of her hand and using his arms to guide her. Her back and bottom connected to his front and her arms turned to jelly as he spoke intimately in her ear. 

“Nothin’ to it. Get a steady grip -” his hand encased hers, “spread your legs to support your stance -” he nudged her feet further apart - “pull back and release here.”

He moved out of her way to give her room to throw, but she’d gone weak in the knees, hot and flushed from the contact. Sansa threw it halfheartedly, holding on too long, and it descended sharply, clanging on the cement and sliding to the corner of the stall. 

She slapped a hand over her eyes.

“Not even close.” 

“Go get it,” he chuckled, his beard tickling her shoulder. 

Sansa walked in shame to where the axe had landed and picked it up by the knob.

“Here,” she said, offering it to him.

“Try again, but this time -” his fingers glided up her sides, tracing her silhouette, and raised her arms over her head - “try it two handed.” He bent her arms back, helping her position her hands. Feeling his way back down the side of her ribs, his palm flattened on top of her abdomen. “Don’t forget to spread your legs,” he rumbled. 

She chucked the axe and it flew high, clattering and shaking the chain link barrier well above the target. Puffing a stray strand of hair out of her face, she grabbed the abused axe.

“Your turn,” Sansa announced, poking him with the butt of the handle. 

Sandor accepted the axe and threw it in under a second. He hit his mark effortlessly and smirked. 

“Don’t you dare gloat.”

His shoulders bounced with repressed laughter and he brought the axe, waving it in front of her face.

“Your turn,” he mocked her. 

Narrowing her eyes, she snatched the axe from him, revoking his wandering hands with a smug smirk of her own. 

“I don’t suppose you’ll let me pay for the beer?”

“No,” he replied, stern. 

“Will you let me if I manage to hit the target?”

He barked a rude laugh.

“You couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn.”

“Then you have nothing to lose.”

Sandor caught her arm as she prepared to take a shot.

“Inside the circle, or no deal.” He be damned if she’d pay for any part of tonight.

“If that’s the case, then I’m buying beers AND a snack.”

“Fat chance girl -”

“Sansa,” she insisted and shooed him back, taking a small measure of joy from baiting him. “By the way, did I ever tell you my family has an archery range?” Sansa drew the axe back over her head with both hands and loosed it with an Oomph! The metal head struck the second ring from the middle, the blade barely sunken into the wood. It wasn’t a great shot, but it was enough for her to win their wager. She smiled innocently at his livid expression. 

“Did you just hustle me?” he growled. 

“Barely,” she admitted, greatly amused by his anger. “I wasn’t actually sure I could do it.” Rehanging the axe on the wall, she coyly sauntered by. “Looks like I’m buying.”

He muttered, following her over to the table. 

They drank what remained of their beers and Sansa ordered a round of house nachos sprinkled with bacon. 

She sat opposite of him, looking determined as she drained the last of her pint. 

“Shall we get the requisite formalities over with?”

“What?”

“I’m Sansa Stark. I’m twenty. I’m a sophomore in college. I’m from Winterfell and I like to bake.” 

Sandor rolled his eyes. 

“Sandor Clegane. Twenty-eight. Didn’t graduate highschool.”

“Clegane, as in the ancient kennel masters?”

He nodded, uninterested. 

“So you're from the Westerlands then?”

“Aye.”

“Any family?”

“A brother.”

“Older or younger?”

“Older.”

“What does he do?”

Taking a deep swig of beer, he sneered. “Rotting in prison. Life sentence.”

“Oh.”

“Hm. When you gonna get to the real fucking question?” Sandor asked, irritably. 

“What?”

“Don’t play stupid games with me,” he warned. “There’s only one question anyone gives a flying fuck about when they take a look at me.”

It dawned on her. He was referring to his scars. 

She kept her blue eyes level with his glare.

“I’m not asking.”

Kicking the bench out from under him, he railed at her: “Why would you give a fuck about where I’m from or what fuckers I’m kin to? Just ask the one fucking thing you came here to ask!”

Sansa shriveled in the wake of his wrath and glanced around at the other patrons in the bar. They were looking at her and the man shouting at her, worried and on the verge of interfering. 

Barely audible, she whisper:

“Why did you come to the bookshop?”

“What?”

“I said, why did you come and find me in the bookshop? That’s the question I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

He scrutinized her, searching for any hint of a lie, his gray eyes attempting to pierce her thoughts. Gradually, he cooled, and when the rage had gone from his features, he came and sat by her side. Those who’d concerned themselves went back to their drinks, satisfied the outburst was over. 

Contrite, he cleared his throat.

“I didn’t think you were serious about seeing me again. Figured you were in shock or just being kind to the dog who gave you a ride in his truck.” 

Sansa stared at the table, inspecting the wood grain. Sandor used the knuckle of his finger to gently turn her head to him. 

“When you brought me that hot chocolate shit, no one was chasing you, you didn’t need rescuin’. There was nothin’ in it for you. Beautiful women don’t talk to me, they don’t even look at me, not one, save you. Figured you were either dimwitted or legally blind,” he joked and she huffed, pursing her lips to crush the corners of her mouth from smiling. 

“So if I’m not blind,” Sansa pretended to fume, “does that make me dimwitted?”

He lifted her chin and pressed his mouth to hers, stealing a kiss and savoring the taste of her lips. 

“Makes me lucky,” he rasped against her mouth, his voice husky. 

Sandor watched her for an outward indication of approval or reproach, but Sansa simply responded in kind, meeting his lips and closing her eyes. 

It was an unhurried kiss, inquisitive and amative, beginning inexpertly and developing into an ardent rhythm neither wanted to break. Sandor physically ached with the desire to pull her onto his lap and mold her body to his, restraining the urge to deepen the kiss and wishing he’d chosen a location away from the prying eyes of spectators. 

For her part, Sansa was enraptured. No one had ever kissed her like this. His lips were firm, yet compliant, receptive, and nimble, coaxing her to match his tempo and ardour. Her nails skimmed over his chest and raked through the dense hair of his rugged beard. Somewhere in her subconscious, she was reminded of their audience, and she lowered her head, apologizing. 

“Sor-”

He nipped her. Sansa gawked at him. He’d nipped the tip of her nose. 

Laughing, she asked:

“What was that for?”

“‘Nuff of your sorrys, little bird.”

“Little bird?”

“You chirp.”

“I do not!"

He tried to nip her again, pinning her waist as she dived for cover under his chin. Sandor used the back of her shirt to pry her out, wrestling her arms to her sides. 

“What’re you sorry for?”

“I didn’t want it to end.”

“Doesn’t have to.”

She governed her expression, concealing her nerves. That could wait, she thought, he doesn’t need to know that right now. 

“What is it?” he prodded, picking up on the shift in her mood. 

“It’s nothing.”

“S'not nothing.”

Sansa clammed up, her mouth a tight line. 

Sandor kissed her cheek.

“You want to get outta here?” 

Blushing, she smiled and nodded demurely, crossing her fingers. The night wasn't over yet. 


	10. X

X

He jammed his key through the lock on the third try, using his enormous torso to hide his shaking paws. Sandor clenched up, willing his body to still. Fuck, this had to be a mistake. He should’ve taken her to a park, to a movie theater, to some Gods damned pompous restaurant where guys took classy women like her, not his fucking shithole of a place. He knew the name Stark, knew what it meant. For the hundredth time he wondered, what the fuck was she doing with him? 

On the threshold of Sandor’s apartment, Sansa inwardly fretted. _ Oh Gods, why did I agree to come here? Did I agree to sex? Isn’t that what, ‘you want to get outta here’ means? He’s going to find out. He’ll think I’m a prude. I’ll be terrible. I don’t know what to do. I’m not ready. Is it too late to ask to go home? No, I can’t. He’ll take it the wrong way and I don’t want to - I can’t - explain why. This is a mistake… _

__ “Little bird?” Sandor said uneasy, holding the door. The girl was at the very edge of his porch, wound up tighter than a monk in a whore house, staring ahead with wide, blank eyes. He chewed on the inside of his cheek. 

Sansa’s vision filled with the navy of his shirt. He gripped her chin with his thumb and forefinger. 

“You want me to take you home?”

No, that’s not what she wanted. Damnit, why did she have to be such a coward?!

When she didn’t say anything, he nodded and sighed. Too much, too fast. He really was a dumb fucker. Sandor fished his keys out of his pocket, ready to lock back up and drive her home, when she maneuvered by him, legs stiff as boards, marching past his door and into his living room. 

He leaned on the doorframe.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know,” she replied, her voice quaking. 

Closing the door behind him and leaving it unlocked, he weaved his fingers through her hair of burning embers. 

“You scared of me?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not,” she croaked. “You won’t hurt me.”

“No little bird, I won’t hurt you.” Sandor kissed her forehead, her cheeks, then her lips. “You-”

“I’veneverdonethisbefore,” Sansa blurted.

Perplexed, he scratched his neck. The girl spoke in gibberish. 

“Gonna have to repeat that for me.”

Humiliated, she bowed her head to the side.

“I haven’t done this before.”

“What? Gone home with a man?”

She was silent and in her silence the answer sucker punched him straight in the gut.

Fuck. Virgin. And he’d been groping her all fuckin’ night. Shit. Fuck. Shit, fuck. 

“Look at me.”

Sansa peeled her teary eyes up. Now would come the judgement and the jokes. But his gray eyes were steadfast and sincere. 

“You hungry?”

What? Hungry? 

He seemed to come to a decision and went to the kitchen, taking a pot off a shelf and filling it with water. 

Dazed, Sansa’s libido and angst had it out. He’d kissed her. She’d liked it. It was simple, right? No, of course it wasn’t. He had a temper to contend with. The question was, was it a momentary loss of control, or was it his control that was fleeting?

She wavered between the kitchen and the couch. He hadn’t asked her to sit, but he hadn’t asked for her help. She loitered in the living room, glancing at the spartan decor. The walls were bare, the furniture dated, and the carpet, old, but clean, bordering on meticulously tidy. There were no pungent odors like Robb and Jon’s pig pen apartment, where ants frolicked in their garbage and mold grew in veins up the shower curtain. 

A stubby hallway led to a bathroom on the left and ended in the bedroom. Feeling the after of effects of beer on her bladder, she asked:

“Can I use your bathroom?”

“Too good for the corner?” he grinned wryly, pulling her leg and pouring noodles in the boiling pot of water.

_Almost playful_ , Sansa thought, as he’d been throwing axes, and his gruff laughter brought a smile to her face. 

When she finished, Sansa washed her hands at the sink, having to stoop over to put her hands in the water. It occurred to her then that the shower, the toilet, and the sink, short for her height, had to be near miniature to him. She giggled at the thought of him doubled over in the shower, trying to move and hitting the curtain or the showerhead, a veritable bull in a china shop. 

Patting her damp hands on her jeans, she looked up as he asked:

“Heard you in there. What’s so funny?” 

“Nothing,” she answered, attempting a straight face and failing. Resting her forearms on the kitchen counter, Sansa watched him saute butter and garlic in a saucepan. “You like to cook?”

“It’s better than starving. Thirsty?”

“Water?”

He reached into a cupboard and grabbed a large mason jar glass, filling it from a pitcher in the fridge.

“Thank you.”

“Quit thanking me.”

Sandor drained spaghetti noodles then dumped them back into the sizzling pot, drizzling them with the garlic and butter. 

“Take a seat-” he nodded to a two person pub table with stools. 

A pile of noodles in a plastic bowl a fork landed as she scooted herself in. Across from her, Sandor dug in, shoveling pasta in his mouth and slurping sauce on his beard. He was done before she took her first bite. 

“No good?” he asked, looking from her to her bowl. “I know s’not much.”

“Buttered noodles? I love them. So does Arya and -” Sansa stabbed her food. She’d almost said Jane. “If you really want to treat yourself, try adding fresh parmesan.” 

“Why fresh? I got that dry Kraft shit if you want some.”

She waved her hands. 

“No, thank you,” she giggled. “I don’t want to impose. Save the Kraft shit for a special occasion.” 

“Hah!” He slapped his palm on the table. “You  _ can _ curse.”

Sansa covered her mouth as if she were deeply mortified. 

“Sir, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. A lady has no need for obscene language.”

“Not a sir, and I can think of worse things to come out of a mouth.”

“Or into one.” She retorted and eeped, snapping her mouth shut. 

“Was that a dirty joke?”

“No.”

Sandor grinned triumphantly. 

“Maybe next time I’ll get a fuck outta you - Shit!” His fist smacked the table. “Didn’t mean it like  that. I meant the word fuck, not -”

“I know, I know,” Sansa said, feeling the heat rush to her face.

Cracking his knuckles, he pried his fat foot out of his big mouth. 

“Can’t tell if it’s your courtesies, if you’re scared of me, or you’ve got skin thick as shoe leather.”

“What do you mean?”

“You putin’ up with me.”

“Oh -” she ran a hand through her hair - “well, I like you. You say what you mean. You’re unfiltered -”

“Foul mouthed.”

“- you do have a bit of a temper -”

“I shouldn’tve done that,” he said quietly, referring to his behavior at the bar, scars drawn in a painful looking grimace. 

“- but you’re also kind, and funny, and charming.”

Incredulous, Sandor leaned back in his seat. 

“Charming? Didn’t think I’d get you drunk off one beer.”

“Good sir, do not make me prod you with my fork.”

“Stop calling me sir, girl.”

“Stop calling me girl.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Sansa ate a few bites of her pasta, but stopped with a warning from her stomach. Beer and nachos and now pasta. She’d had enough for one night. 

“It’s good, but you gave me too much -”

He inhaled her leftovers and stacked the bowls to the side. 

“Maybe I could cook for you next time?”

“Next time?”

“If you wanted to…”

“I want to.”

She smiled from her eyes to her mouth, as if he were some handsome prick prince, and Sandor set a calloused paw on her well manicured hand. He’d take it slow with her if that’s what she wanted.

“Sandor?”

“Hm?”

“I know you don’t like it when I thank you -”

“You got nothin’ to thank me for.”

“I didn’t want to say anything...about _that_ , but I wasn’t sure if I was leading you on or -”

“Like I said, little bird, you got nothin’ to thank me for.”

She got up, scraping the seat on the tile floor and stood between the pillars of his thighs. Even sitting he still had the advantage of height. Cautiously, Sansa raised her hand, giving him ample opportunity to stop her. He stiffened, but kept still, and she brushed her fingertips over the blotched skin of his burns, smoothing the uneven tissue with the palm of her hand.

“Thank you Sandor.”

Rough hands encircled her waste, bringing her closer. 

Lips, supple and sweet, caressed the scarred corner of his mouth. His hold on her tightened and he fisted a hand in her hair, tilting her head back and claiming her mouth. Urging her lips apart, he tasted her tongue with his own, savoring her flavor and devouring her fervid sighs. 

Sansa shifted her head to accommodate, raking her nails down his chest and anchoring herself to his shirt. His tongue stroked the inside of her mouth and sparked a desire to mimic his oral strokes with her body. She pressed her breasts to his torso and her pelvis to his crotch, moaning at the delicious ache it created in her center. 

Sandor pulled her head back by her hair. 

“You a virgin ‘til marriage?”

“Oh, um...no,” she answered modestly. 

“Thank fuck,” he growled and kissed her again, grabbing her ass and grinding their bodies together. They kissed until their lips were raw and chafed, and their breaths came in ragged gasps. 

“I need to take you home,” Sandor said, moving from her lips to her neck, planting kisses and nipping the ivory skin. His erection throbbed for release and despite her enthusiasm, he didn’t see her wanting to help him jack off.  _ Slow _ , he reminded himself,  _ go slow _ . 

“Is it late?”

“Doesn’t matter. My cock’s gonna burst if we keep this up.”

A memory popped into her mind, and she decided to go for it.

“Will you promise not to laugh if I ask you a question?”

“Not with a set-up like that.”

She punched his brawny arm knowing it barely registered on his bulk. 

“You can let me know if something my friend once told me is true.”

He motioned her to go on. 

“Is a man really as big as the line between the tip of his thumb and forefinger?” Sansa took his hand and made the ‘L’ shape. Sandor studied his own hand amused.

“Nah.”

“See, I didn’t think so. It’s too -”

“Too small by half.”

Sansa’s mouth hung open.

“You’re kidding.”

Cocky, he grinned and captured her bottom lip with his teeth. 

“Next time, little bird, if you’re ready.”

“And if I’m not?”

Sandor heard her apprehension and tugged on her hips. 

“So what? I got two working hands, don’t I?” he winked with his bad eye. 

She snorted, trying to hold back a laugh. 

He drove her back home with his arm snug around her shoulders and held her hand up to her apartment. On the landing, he pushed her gently against the door, giving her one last kiss and licking her lips. 

“I go home for Sevenmas at the end of next week,” she breathed. “Can I see you next weekend?”

“Aye. You got my number. Whistle and this dog’ll come.”

Standing on tiptoes, she kissed him with tempting slowness and slid her hand down his firm abdomen, stopping just above the waist of his pants. He groaned into her mouth, bending to chase her moist lips as she reluctantly pulled away. 

“Goodnight, Sandor.”

“‘Night, little bird.”

Sansa went inside and in a content stupor, Sandor descended back down the stairs to his truck. 

Patience, he could do that for her. He’d blister his hands on his cock if that’s what it took. 


	11. XI

XI

“Arya, a little help!” Sansa gibed her sister. “It has to be something good, and creative, and interesting.”

“Tall order, Red. I don’t think you’re gonna outdo an axe throwing bar,” Arya grumbled from the couch. When Sansa had mentioned the niche bar, Arya was agog with jealousy. _“Gendry takes me someplace where you can’t even put your elbows on the table, and you get some badass first date hurling axes.”_ She’d already made Gendry promise to take her there when they came back from winter break. 

“Come on, give me an idea. If you like it, he’ll probably like it too. Everywhere I think of is either too glitzy, too faddish, or…”

“Jane?”

She nodded. The image of her friend’s mutilated corpse haunted her dreams and woke her up in a chilly sweat. 

“It’s too cold and rainy for picnics and it would feel a bit trite.”

“What do ya know about the guy? Besides that he lost a fight with a clothes iron.”

“Don’t say things like that!”

“Seriously, Red, the scars don’t bother you? I always thought you like pretty boys, not big and ugly -”

“Arya!” 

Her sister had the good sense to quit before Sansa scolded her.

“Fine, but mom’s gonna freak when she finds out.”

Sansa dipped over the couch, nose to nose with her sister. 

“That’s why we’re not going to tell Mom.”

“We’re not?” Arya asked, goading her. “And why ever not, dear sister?”

“Because if you breathe a word of this to Mom, I’ll tell her what really happened to Grandmother’s china.”

The fine dining ware had magically disappeared ten years ago, not long after Arya had been practicing indoor street hockey. Reading her book in the tree grove at the edge of their property, Sansa had caught Arya in the act of burying the broken porcelain in a shallow grave. Their mother had been operating under the impression that a thief had stolen the china, mysteriously bypassing all the other valuables in the house.

“You can’t hold that over me forever.”

“I know, but so long as you have to go home to Mom, it’s a compelling reason to keep your mouth shut.”

Arya crossed her arms and threw her head back to stare at the ceiling. 

“You like this guy, huh?”

“I do. I’ll tell Mom when I’m sure it’s...when I’m sure.”

“Uhg, Gods, you sound like some mooney eyed twit from a movie.”

Sansa slapped her on the thigh.

“Ideas. Now.”

“Take him lingerie shopping.”

“What?!”

“It’s the perfect date. He’ll be too busy eye-banging you to hear a word that comes out of your mouth, which is good because there’s no way you two have anything in common.”

“Useless, utterly useless.” Sansa stormed to her bedroom. 

Flopping on the bed, she buried her head in a pillow. 

What did she know about him? He liked beer, that was evident. Did he like other kinds of alcohol? She wasn’t so sure. He was athletic, at least she thought he was based on his physique. The most she’d seen of his bare skin were his arms and they were twice as thick as her thighs. His chest must be impressive based on her cursory explorations, and her core temperature ignited at the thought of him shirtless. 

Sansa sat up. It was an idea, but Gods, her intentions would be only too obvious once he knew what she was suggesting. She squirmed, her thighs squeezing together. It would certainly give her an ample view of his body without having to strip him. 

It would be fun, she reasoned, and few people knew about it. There was a strong chance he’d never been there. She could play it cool, couldn’t she? The nagging voice in her head didn’t share her confidence. 

Sansa picked up her phone and texted him.

_“Still free on Saturday?”_

Her heart drummed, pounding against her rib cage. 

_“Aye."_

_“My place at one?”_

He sent a thumb’s up and she texted the final instruction, fingers trembling on the keys.

_“Really?”_ he replied.

_“Really.”_

There was no reply after that and she tossed and turned on the bed, her body warm and restless, remembering the sensation of strong hands on her hips and the taste of his tongue in her mouth. It’d been a night of firsts. Her first date since Jane. Her first time throwing an axe. The first time she’d gone home with a date, and the first time she’d been kissed open mouthed and pressed full bodied to a man. Sansa flexed her toes and writhed on the sheets, moisture gathering between her thighs.

And what was it he’d said? ‘ _My cock’s gonna burst if we keep this up_ ’? 

She panted, her hand wondering below her panties to press her aching core. Had he touched himself after their date? Did he feel the same heated tension that tortured her now? 

Arching her back off the bed, she circled her finger over the sensitive tissue, thinking of the way he pressed her to the apartment door, his hand caressing her stomach, thumb skimming under the button of her jeans, and the feel of his demanding lips burning a path down her neck. He’d used his teeth, sinfully tickling and biting her long neck, creating jolts of pleasure and stiffening her nipples. She imagined what might have done if she’d let him continue, letting him fondle her breasts, alternating from his hands to his teeth. She thought of his calloused thumb shifting gradually lower, past her underwear and tickling her hair, before sinking into the wet flesh to stroke her. 

Legs shuddering, she silently cried out, her pelvic muscles spasming. Afterward, when her breaths evened and her limbs had relaxed, she glanced at her phone, debating whether or not to call him. She’d found her release, but the ache persisted, pulsating from further within. 

_Not yet. Not yet._ Sansa chanted, whining impatiently. _We’re not there yet._

Her mind drifted to the things couples could do for each other, and drew a blank. She’d heard things about blow jobs, hand jobs, heavy petting, and sexting, but what would he like, and what would she be willing to do? Sweat broke out in her pits. She didn’t know how to do any of those things. Burying her head in a pillow, Sansa missed her friend. Jane would listen and laugh and encourage her. Her relationship with Arya was different. They didn’t share in the same way. 

She closed her eyes. Sandor knew she was a virgin, and what was more, he’d been patient and kind. _Please,_ she prayed _, please let him be patient._

  
  


Sandor tread the steps to her apartment with the requested item in hand. 

_Forty-eight degrees out, what the hell is she thinking?_

Rapping his knuckles on the door, the short one answered again. What was her name? Aya? Arra? 

“You’re late,” she said, a muted expression of hate on her face. 

He checked his watch and turned his wrist for her to see.

“Five fucking minutes.”

“She noticed. She notices things like that. Just sayin’. Face like that, I’d show up on time.”

Sandor had to kneel down to even their height. 

“Mouth like that, I’d try growing some breasts.”

They regarded one another shrewdly until Arya cracked a grin. She spun, gracefully light footed for a homely looking girl, and yelled at the top of her lungs:

“Sansa, Leatherface is here.”

“Leatherface?” Sandor asked, leaning on the kitchen cabinets.

“The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”

“Hm, missed that one.”

“You didn’t miss much. One big gorefest.”

Sansa trotted out from the hall, her hair pulled back from her face in a ponytail. She wore a sweater and sweatpants and Arya did a double take. 

“You said no sweatpants on dates!”

Annoyed, Sansa noogied her little sister’s hair. 

“Later, Arya.”

For once in his life, Sandor felt overdressed. He didn’t have much in the way of date clothes, but he’d slapped on his least worn henley and some black jeans. The girl could’ve warned him - he would’ve worn his comfy gray sweats and old tee-shirt. 

“Where we goin’?” 

She hesitated, her eyes darting to Arya. 

“You’ll see when we get there.” Grabbing him by the arm, she said a hasty goodbye to her sister. “I’ll text you when I’m on my way home.”

In the foyer, they passed Tormund’s office and he shot up from his seat as Sansa and Sandor walked by.

“Sansa?” he called and she stopped at the door to the outside. “Oh ho ho, what’s this now?” Tormund gestured to Sandor. “I thought we had somethin’ special?”

“Tormund, this is Sandor. Sandor, this is my landlord, Tormund,” she introduced Sandor to the man descended from wildings. “We’ve never dated,” she added for good measure.

“Yer breaking my heart. If it’s scars you like -” he started to lift up his shirt and Sansa turned to face the door. 

Growling, Sandor took a menacing step towards him, but Sansa hooked an arm over his, pulling him out the door with her. 

“Bye Tormund.”

On the sidewalk and away from Tormund's crocodile tears, Sansa lead Sandor by the arm down the street. 

“My truck -”

“We don’t need it. It’s a short walk to get there.”

“And where’s that?”

“I told you, you’ll see when we get there.”

“G- Little bird…” he planted his feet. “That fucker hit on you like that all the time?”

She laughed. “Don’t worry, he’s harmless, though I suspect he’s had a previous head injury. He seems convinced that his father is a bear.” 

“Crazy fucker.”

“He’s really very sweet, just odd.”

Sandor grumbled under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothin’”

Sansa pushed the button for the crosswalk and took a moment to study him. He looked ready to slug Tormund. Dubious, she asked:

“Are you jealous?”

“No,” he answered, perhaps a little too quick.

She struggled to clamp down on a rollicking smile and decided not to argue. 

The walk signal flashed and they crossed the street, headed in the direction of the university campus.

“Did you have a good week at work?” she said in an attempt to get his mind off of Tormund.

“No.” 

“Can I ask -”

“No.”

“Oh,” she withdrew as he shut down the conversation. 

His palm ran across her shoulders and brought her to his side. 

“It’s better you don’t know what I do.”

“I think I knew that,” Sansa replied grimly, “but I’d like to get to know you.”

Sandor smirked at that, and urged her on:

“Ask me somethin’ else. Just not about work.”

“Do you work out a lot?”

He let out a rancorous laugh. 

“Aye, I train at a gym near my place.”

“Train?”

“I box.”

“Are you good?”

“Not bad. I’m bigger than most and that helps.”

“Do you compete?”

“No,” and guessing her next question, he beat her to the punch. “Don’t like being a ring with a buncha screamin’ people watchin’ me. Stared at 'nuff as it is.”

Sansa wrapped her arm around his back and leaned into his side as they trekked the grassy knoll behind the Baratheon building. The campus was empty the Saturday after finals. Most students were either on their way home for winter break or starting a fourteen day bender.

“What’re you goin’ to school for?” asked Sandor, figuring he ought to ask her questions too.

“Right now I’m completing my general ed classes.”

“General ed? I thought college was to learn to be a lawyer or a doctor or teacher or some shit.”

“It is.”

“So what’re you goin’ to be?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, dejected. “When I graduated high school I thought I’d figure out what I wanted to do once I got to college. But I’ve been here for a year and a half and I still don’t have a clue what direction to go. I complete all my general ed requirements next semester and after that…I don't know.”

“Hm, I get it.”

“You do?”

He nodded.

“I got kicked outta school when I was sixteen. Gave a kid a concussion, put him in the hospital.”

“What happened?”

“Lost my temper. He wouldn’t leave me alone. Started up ‘bout my face in front of a girl.”

“You liked her?”

“Aye, she wasn’t a looker like you, but she had a nice way about her. Didn’t want nothin’ to do with me after I knocked out his teeth. Too scared to come near me,” he mumbled and unconsciously hugged Sansa closer. “My mom died the year before and my dad was drunk most of the time. Gregor, my brother, was born a mean fucker. Soon as I got kicked outta school, he had me taking jobs with him as a goon for loan sharks. I hated it. Hated the fuckers who paid us and the unlucky assholes we cornered. When I turned eighteen, I quit, packed my shit and was headed for the door. Gregor didn’t like that. He was makin’ good money lending me out to his boss. He tried to stop me. Dad got in the way. Gregor killed him. Did it with a fuckin’ smile on his face. The cops came and arrested him and I got to help put him away for life. Good fuckin’ riddance.”

Sansa blanched. His brother had killed his father. She couldn’t think of anything worth saying. There were no words for the horror he’d endured. 

“Once I was free of him, I left town and ended up here. The Lannisters needed muscle. I needed coin. A few more months and I can quit workin’ for those cunts.”

“What will you do?”

“Don’t know yet. Still figuring that out, like you.”

It was comforting to hear that she wasn’t alone in facing an uncertain future. There were dozens, hundreds of paths to choose from. Finally she’d met someone who was willing to admit they were just as lost as she was. 

At the other side of the school, they walked through Sansa’s old neighborhood and into the shopping district downtown. At a tall rise office building of glinting metal and tinted glass, Sansa pointed to a set of opaque double doors with the word “Rejuvenation” stamped in cursive.

“Little bird -”

“You brought what I asked?”

“Aye-” he showed her the trunks in his hand- “but what’s this?”

“Relax,” she said, grabbing one of his wrists. “It’s a spa.”

“I don’t do spas.” Sandor cemented his feet to the ground and try as she might, she couldn’t budge him. 

“Gods, you’re like a stubborn old oak,” she said, huffing and puffing to pull him along. 

“These places don’t want my business.”

“I’m a member, Sandor. I can bring with me any guest that I'd like.”

“To do what?”

She gave up. He was impossible to move. 

“Back home we have hot springs. Here, they have warm Epsom salt pools. They’re relaxing and -” she emphasized, “private.”

“Private? As in…”

“Just the two of us. They have individual pods that can accomodate up to two. I called and reserved one.”

The scarred side of his face twitched. 

“Lot of effort just to get me outta my shirt.”

Her jaw clenched as she blushed, caught red handed. She gulped and twisted her purse straps in her hand. 

“We don’t have to. I just thought -”

“I’ll do it, but I’m tellin’ you, they won’t like me bein’ in there. The Lannister cunt has me wait out front at these places.”

“Trust me," Sansa said, straightening up, "it won’t be an issue.”

They went inside the cool lobby decorated in the bohemian fashion with orange cushioned chairs and a menagerie of plants hanging from the ceiling. Sandor ducked to avoid draping vines. A young woman at the desk glanced up and gave a welcome smile to Sansa. 

“Nice to see you again Miss Stark,” and turning to Sandor, open shock registered on her face.

“This is Sandor, a friend of mine. I called ahead for a suite.”

The woman composed herself, peeling her eyes from Sandor’s scars. 

“Of course. You’re in suite number three at the end of the hall. Clean robes are hanging in the closet and the pool is ready and warmed.”

“Sounds lovely.”

Towing him behind her down the narrow hall, Sansa opened the last door on the right. Inside was a dressing room with chairs, a water jug filled with lemons and ice, and a bathroom with a toilet and a sink. 

He stood awkwardly in the center, eyeing the place and ready to bolt. 

“Let me undress and then you can have the room to change,” Sansa offered benignly, gaining Sandor’s rapt attention at the mention of ‘undress’. The sweater came off first, revealing the tankini top of a blue and white swimsuit, and the sloping curves of the tops of her breasts. Her skin was pure cream, unblemished and smooth, contrasting against the curtain of red from her hair down her back. 

Sandor chewed his cheek. He knew she wanted to peek at him but he hadn’t counted on getting to see this much of her. She dropped the sweatpants to the floor and he bunched his fists in his pockets. If this was some sort of payback for groping her at the bar, little bird didn’t fight fair. Her long legs stretched for miles, thin strings tying the bikini bottom to her hips and dangling on the length of her thighs. He ground his teeth, picturing those thighs straddling his pelvis. Fucking hells, this was going to be torture. 

“Just go through this door when you’re ready,” she said, crossing her arms modestly over her breasts. He glimpsed her backside before she disappeared from view, and on the other side of the door he heard rippling water. 

He debated right then if he ought to relieve himself in the bathroom. How long could he last with her looking like that? Sandor took a deep breath through his nostrils and blew it out from his mouth. 

_Calm the fuck down. Don’t scare the girl off._

Snapping the tag of the navy swim trunks he’d purchased that morning, he left his clothes in a pile next to hers.

The door opened on a dark room, dimly lit by the blue glow of the pool and a projection of the milky way on the ceiling. 

“Over here,” she called, and he spotted her floating tranquilly in the corner, no more than a back lit silhouette. Teal scallop tiles lined the circular walkway, centering on a metal rail leading down to the water. 

Sansa righted herself to get a better look at him. His broad chest was a mountain of dense, sculpted muscle, covered in hair running from his pecs in a thin trail down his stomach. She could make out the tell-tale ridges of his abs and the trace of a V shape jutting out on his hips. His legs were partially hidden by his trunks, but past the knees, taut calves flexed with his stride. 

Sandor stuck a foot in the pool, testing the waters. His other foot followed. He could hardly feel anything at all. It wasn’t hot, nor cold, but like the temperature of a warm bath, matching the heat of the body. The water came up to the base of his chest, the saltwater density pushing up on his legs. He leaned back and floated, reclining without effort.

“You like it?” she asked, admiring from a distance. 

“Feels strange.”

“Like being weightless?”

“Aye.”

“I was going to order a drink. Would you like one?”

“Beer?”

“Nope, sorry,” Sansa said, apologetic. “Your choices are water, fresh juice, fruit smoothie, or a mimosa.”

“Don’t suppose they can manage a glass water without the fuckin’ cucumber or lemons?”

“I think that could be arranged.” 

She pressed a button on an intercom above the pool and ordered a water - no lemon or cucumber - and a mimosa. 

“Orange juice and vodka?” he asked.

“Orange juice and sparkling champagne."

“Hm. You gonna stick to that wall all afternoon?”

“I might.”

He grinned and maneuvered to sit up in the water. 

“Thought the point was to get a look at me?”

“I can see you just fine from here,” she said with an amused smile. 

Small waves crested as he drew near, caging her with his arms against the side of the pool. 

“And now?” he rasped in her ear, bending down and kissing her neck, his beard brushing on her throat. 

“I, uh-”

There was a knock at the door, and Sandor lifted his head, glaring at the waiter who brought them their drinks. The young man was dressed slacks and a polo and skittered from the room, fleeing from Sandor's steely scowl.

Sansa shoved the glass in his face and kicked out, swimming to less tempting waters. She sipped her mimosa and laughed quietly.

“I can hear that.”

“Sorry.”

“Liar.”

She laughed harder. 

“Don’t be upset. I thought we’d play a game.”

Sandor’s mood lightened. Games were promising. Games were foreplay. 

“What sorta game?”

“An easy one. We take turns. I have to try to guess something correctly about you, something you haven’t told me or I don’t already know. Then you try. We’ll keep points.”

“And if I win?”

“What do you want?”

“What’s on the table?” he asked suggestively, lowering his voice. 

“Uh…” she fumbled, unsure what he’d like from within the limited confines of her boundaries. “Could you make a suggestion?”

“Tits?”

She coughed on her drink. 

“You alright?”

Sansa worked to clear her throat, blushing madly. 

“Yes, I’m fine.” Setting her wine glass down on the tile, she asked: “You want to see them or…?”

 _See ‘em, kiss ‘em, nip ‘em._ He could spend an entire afternoon on her breasts.

“Up to you, little bird.”

Hadn’t she been imaging his hands on her chest not so long ago? Sansa’s heart fluttered. Yes, she’d be just fine with that. 

“Okay, if you win, you may touch them, _over_ my shirt.”

Fuck, he chuckled at himself. He’d been hoping she’d forget that detail. 

“Deal.”

“But if I win -”

“I’ll take these fuckin’ shorts off -”

“No!” she giggled and splashed him with water. “If I win, we’re getting pedicures.” 

As soon as the words left her mouth, she saw the smirk vanish from his face. 

“We?”

“Yes, you and I.”

“No, pick somethin’ else.”

“Manicures?” she teased and out of nowhere, he grabbed her foot and dragged her to him, dunking her head in the water. 

She sprayed salt water in his face and he dunked her again. 

“Somethin’ else,” he demanded, cackling as they wrestled. 

“Facials? Waxing? Mud baths?” Sansa joked every time he let her up for air. “Massages?” _Oops._ She hadn’t meant to say that. 

“Massage?” he repeated, intrigued. “As in -”

“No. No. I didn’t mean to say that.”

“If you wanted to feel me up, coulda just asked.” Sandor pressed her to his half naked body, his hands sliding up her back. 

Sansa threw her brain into gear. 

“If I win, I want a dance.”

“A dance?” he spat the word with distaste.

“Yes, a dance. Any time, any place of my choosing.”

“I don’t dance.”

“It’s that or a pedicure.”

Gently headbutting her forehead, he conceded.

“Not. In. Public.”

“Deal,” she held out her hand and he shook it. “I’ll go first. You don’t own a tie.”

“Wrong, little bird. I’ve one.” He studied her for a moment. “You don’t own a sex toy.”

“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,” she replied, scarlet. 

“One point to me.”

“You’re a dog person.”

“Wrong again,” he said, reclining once more. “Had a cat as a kid. Sorry fuckin’ thing with half a tail. Named it Stranger.”

“I was so sure you’d like dogs. I’ve heard you call yourself one.”

“Not because I like ‘em. I’m a dog cause I’m a brute and I bite.”

“You do like to nip,” Sansa answered softly and Sandor’s cock twitched. 

“You’re the dog person. Big dogs, not lil’ ones.”

“Yes, yes, you’re right.”

“That’s two.”

She hadn’t thought he’d actually be good at this, but he appeared to have a knack for reading her. 

“You go first this time.”

“Alright. You’re a daddy’s girl.”

Sansa tucked her hair back on her neck, eyes on the water. 

“No, I’m very close to my mother. But my father was amazing. I miss him.”

He wanted to kick himself for bringing up her dead dad. What a smooth fucker he was. 

“Sorry, little bird.”

“It’s okay, really. I don’t mind talking about him. He was a good man. You would have liked him.”

“Don’t think he woulda cared for me. Not after seeing me sniff after your skirts.”

“He was my dad. He wouldn’t like any boy ‘sniffing at my skirts’.”

“Suppose not.”

“My turn. You lost your virginity before….I’m going to say nineteen?”

“Aye, that’s one for you.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen.”

“Fifteen?!” 

His laughter echoed in the small room. 

“Aye, fifteen. Was awkward as fuck. Didn’t know what to do with this fuckin’ thing yet-” Sandor waved a hand at his crotch. 

“Was she a virgin too?”

“Nah, she was a lil’ older than me, seventeen or eighteen. Think she just wanted to take this big fucker for a spin.”

“H-have you ever...never mind.”

“Go on,” he beckoned, enthusiastic for the subject of sex. 

“Have you ever been with a virgin?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“My turn.” Spinning in the water, he pushed off from the bottom, latching onto the edge in arm’s reach of her. Silver gray eyes landed on hers and he held her gaze as if daring her to lie. “You touched yourself after our date.”

She wasn’t quick enough to hide her embarrassment, her eyes widening for a fraction of a second. 

“Holy fuck!” he shouted, incredulous. “Am I right?!” 

“Quiet! There are other people here.”

“Who gives a fuck?!” His transparent glee was infectious. “Did you think about me?”

“I’m not answering that -” she pushed his head under water only to be pulled down with him. 

He surfaced, hair wet and water beaded in his beard, holding her in his arms tight to his chest. Sansa wiped the salt from her eyes and froze. He was smiling. Not smirking or grinning as he so often did. He was smiling, truly smiling, and in that moment he was strikingly handsome. 

Sandor laughed good and hard, happy for the first time in years, when he felt her supple lips on his cheek, flipping the switch and charging the atmosphere. His fingers went to the base of her neck, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. 

He kissed her tentatively at first, then urgently, parting her mouth and licking her tongue. She sighed, molding her body to his torso, running fingertips over muscles and hair. Succumbing to instinct, Sandor coaxed her parted thighs up his waist, feeling her center on his erection, and pinned her to the pool wall. 

Sansa was lost in his touch, devoid of rational thought, moving in sync with his vigorous thrusts while Sandor sampled the citrus in her mouth then the salt on her skin. Neck bent back, she cradled his head as his lips suckled her throat, moaning breathlessly at the scrape of his teeth. He licked and kissed, lifting her up, until his mouth crested the swell of her breasts. Smoothing a palm up her side, he brushed the underside of one mound and listened to her pleading whimper, arching into his hand and spurring him on. 

He pinched her lightly and she bit his bottom lip. How easy it would be to remove his trunks, push the crotch of her bikini out of the way, and -

 _Fuck_. Sandor forcefully separated them, jumping out of the pool to sit on the edge. 

Sansa reeled, the world coming back into focus. 

“Why?”

She looked hurt and he swore under his breath. 

“Was losing control, little bird.”

Nodding, she admitted: “Me too.”

“I’m gonna get my clothes.”

Standing on gelatin legs, he made it to the dressing room, restraining his turgid prick in his pants. 

  
  


Out on the street, he kept his hands to himself. No need to tempt fate twice in one day. 

“Did you have a good time?” Sansa asked, and he raised his brow.

“Should be asking you that.”

She hummed. 

“I had a wonderful time.”

He caught her arm and leaned down, grasping the side of her neck. 

“Wasn’t too rough with you?”

Her blue eyes sparkled. 

“No, you weren’t rough -” she kissed his palm. “I’ve never done that before.” Then her eyes closed and she looked pained. 

“What is it?”

“Cameras, Sandor. Oh Gods, what if someone saw us?”

He chuckled, placing his arm on her shoulders and steering her back to her apartment. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout that. It’s a right of passage.”

“A right of passage?”

“Like fuckin’ in an elevator.”

“Sandor, have you had sex in an elevator?"

“Not yet,” he growled into her hair and Sansa poked him in the rib. 

Three blocks from her place, she offered to cook dinner for him.

“I still owe you from last time.”

“Don’t owe me shit.”

“Blunt as ever, good sir.”

“Quit calling me sir.”

“You call me little bird.”

“You like it.”

“I do,” she confessed, aware of her increasing attraction to the man at her side, when a shadow darkened her thoughts. 

“Little bird? You’re not chirpin’?”

“I like you. I like your jokes, and your laugh. You’re handsome -”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’ll bite you.”

“Don't make me beg."

Shoving him off her, she pretended to pout. 

“I just...Do you feel that way too? You’re not humoring me because…” it sounded conceited to say it out loud.

“Cause you’re pretty?” he finished for her. “No little bird. I’m not here just cause you’re pretty.” Sandor grabbed her hand and they turned the last corner, their afternoon coming to an abrupt end.

A black and white cop car was parked outside of her building.


	12. XII

XII

“Arya!” Sansa yelled frantically, running up the steps to their apartment. The door was cracked open and she struck it, bursting inside and colliding with Officer Brienne’s robust profile. 

“Miss Stark, are you okay?” The policewoman asked, helping her to her feet. 

Sansa screwed her neck around, skipping over Officer Lannister to Arya, safe and unharmed on the couch. 

“Merciful Mother, thank you,” she breathed, running her hands through her mussed hair and taking a seat next to her sister. 

“Clegane?” 

Framed in the doorway, Sandor glowered at Jaime.

Equally confounded, Brienne looked from Sansa to the giant, gnarled man at her door. 

“Miss Stark, was this man bothering you?”

“Not at all. We were just coming back here for something to eat,” she said, choosing to ignore the startled expression on Brienne’s face. “What’s going on?”

“Another girl died,” Arya answered. “Another girl from school.”

“Who?” Sansa asked as Sandor crept in, quietly closing the door. 

“Lollys Stokeworth,” said Brienne. “Did you know her?"

“No, I don’t think so.” Sansa searched her mind, unable to recall the name. 

“We’re confident the murderer is a student at the school,” Jaime interjected, flipping open his notepad. “We wanted to ask you again, can you remember any new faces or recent acquaintances of Jane prior to her death?”

“Just the boys she’d been seeing over summer -” Sansa gasped. “And Gendry!” 

Arya’s brow furrowed.

“What?”

“The night Jane met those guys, she danced with Gendry. He never asked her out, but maybe she upset him.

“Sansa, it’s not Gendry,” her sister said protectively. “He’s as aggressive as a tranquilized bunny.”

“But what if -”

“No.” 

“We’ll need his information,” Brienne stated and Arya punched Sansa in the arm, racing past the two officers. 

The door to her room slammed shut and Sansa apologized.

“I shouldn’t have said anything. She’s right.”

“Even if he’s done nothing, he might have seen something,” Brienne reassured her. “We’ll get his alibi and if that’s all there is to it, then we’ll have one less suspect.”

As Brienne and Sansa talked, Jaime casually strolled over to Sandor. 

“A Stark girl. Howling at the moon, Hound?”

“Fuck off Lannister,” Sandor rasped, but the officer was enjoying himself. 

“Wait a minute, is this the same girl Joffrey was interested in?” He looked at Sandor’s face for confirmation and seeing flagrant irritation, continued. “It is. How on Earth did the Hound steal a girl from a Lannister?”

“Didn’t steal her.”

“No, I don’t imagine you had to.” Jaime knew well enough that Joffrey’s charms were superficial at best. “Does she know about you?”

Sandor glanced at him from the corner of his eyes. 

“Some.” 

Jaime nodded, his mouth a thin line. 

“Does Cercei know?”

“No,” Sandor gritted out, his fists clenched. 

“That’s probably for the best, don’t you think?”

He nodded curtly, not trusting a word from the mouth of a lion. 

On the couch, Sansa relived the worst night of her life, going over her statement with Brienne in explicit detail. The memory of Jane’s flayed remains, the skull cap of hair on her knee, her body savaged beyond recognition, washed through her like the freezing currents of the North. 

“Thank you, Sansa,” Brienne said compassionately. “I know that wasn’t easy. We just wanted to be sure there were no changes, no new information we might’ve missed before.”

Wan and haggard from their conversation, Sansa slouched, huddled inward on her lap. 

“Not to cause you any further distress, but might I inquire about the nature of your relationship with Mr. Clegane?”

Sandor? Sansa wondered, did Brienne know him?

“We just started seeing each other.”

Brienne leaned in, her body effectively screening them and whispered: 

“Tell me truthfully, was there any coercion involved?”

“Coercion? I don’t understand.”

“Did he threaten you? Or make you feel like you didn’t have a choice?"

“No! Not at all,” replied Sansa, taken aback. “Are you assuming I wouldn’t see him otherwise? Because of his scars?"

“No, Miss Stark, because of his rap sheet.”

“Oh -” she bit her bottom lip, feeling stupid for being surprised. Hadn't he been forthright with her about his past working for loan sharks? And though he’d said little about Cersei, it didn’t take a genius to interpret his hints. Whatever he did for the Lannister family was strictly off the books. 

“Would you like me to send him on his way?” Brienne asked.

Sansa shook her head. 

“No, thank you,” and anticipating the officer’s protests, she held up a hand. “I don't doubt his track record, but he's been kind to me.”

There was a crackled of static on the officers radios, calling out a three-four-one in progress on West Center Street.

“Again?” Jaime balked, shaking with laughter. “You’d think it’s pledge week again.”

“Excuse me?” Sansa sensed she was missing something.

“Three-four-one,” Brienne explained, “indecent exposure. We get a lot of those during rush week.”

“But in this weather,” Jaime gestured to the window, “well, the cold is friend to no man.”

“Officer Jaime, no further clarification is needed,” his partner chided him, pushing him out the door. “Sansa, keep my number. Call me if anything comes to mind.”

“I will -” Sansa waved them out. 

Sandor lingered at her back.

“You want me out too?”

“No.”

Securing the latch, Sansa went to the kitchen and poured two glasses of water. 

“Who’s Jane?” he asked, parking on one of the bar stools.

Tears clouded her eyes and she brushed them away before they could fall. 

“She was my friend.”

“She’s dead?”

“Last August.”

His hand reached for hers on the counter and he gently tugged her onto his lap, blanketing her in his arms and resting his chin at the base of her neck. 

“What happened?"

“You’ve heard about the murders?”

She felt his whole body stiffen.

“Aye.”

There was silence after that. She couldn’t make herself repeat the gruesome story again and he didn’t ask, able to guess the rest based on tidbits from the news. 

“She the girl I saw you with last spring?”

“You remember that?”

“Hm, you had grass stuck in your hair.”

“I did?” asked Sansa, entwining their fingers. Why would he remember that? 

“Looked like you’d been rolling in it.”

“We were soaking up the sun after finals.”

He thumbed her chin to see her face. 

“You were close?”

“She was my best friend. We lived together.”

“Here?”

“No, at my old apartment building off Main. We moved after…” she didn’t finish. 

“She died there?”

“Arya and I found her -” her voice trembled and Sansa shook in his arms. He encased her, gathering her crumpling figure to his chest. 

“Sorry,” she whimpered, “sorry.”

“Stop sayin’ sorry.” 

He cursed in his head. He was no good at consoling a woman. His limited experience came from nursing his own wounds. Frustrated by inadequacy, he scooped her up, kissing her forehead and laying her down on the couch. 

“You’re not cooking tonight,” he said, pulling out his phone and fixing her in place with a gaze that brokered no argument. “Stay.”

Curious, she watched him stalk down the hall, listening to him pound on Arya’s door. 

“Orderin’ pizza. What do you want?”

“Go squat on a pike!” her sister yelled, taking her anger out on Sandor. 

“Pepperoni then,” he said, unfazed, coming out to the living room. 

“Extra olives!” 

He huffed and sat down next to Sansa’s feet, rubbing her calf. 

“Ham and pineapple?” 

“How’d you know?”

“It’s the only pizza with sweet shit on it.”

She couldn't help the tired smile that broke out on her face. 

He dialed his phone and ordered three extra large pizzas.

“You didn’t have to do that. Plus, Arya and I can barely finish one large pizza on our own.”

“Didn’t want your fuckin’ pineapple touching my food and I figured since your sister’s foamin’ at the mouth, we ought to just open her door and throw the pizza in.”

“She gets like that, especially when I behave like an idiot. I can’t believe I brought up Gendry. He didn’t deserve that.”

“It’s nothin’. Trust me. Been interviewed plenty of times.”

“Brienne mentioned something like that.”

“Did she?” He raised a brow. “What’d she say?”

“Just that you had a rap sheet.”

“Hm.”

“Can I ask -"

“Possession. Had a loaded gun in my truck when they arrested me for assault. The assault charge didn’t stick, so they got me for the gun.”

If he had one quality in spades, it was honesty. 

Hugging her knees, she sat up, looking him square in the eye.

“You have at least two tattoos.”

Sandor grinned and stroked her cheek with his knuckle. 

“I’ve got four.”

“How did I miss them? I had you in the pool with your shirt off.”

“Wasn’t my back you were grinding on, was it?” he pointed out, mercilessly laughing at her coloring complexion. 

The pizza arrived a half hour later and true to his word, Sandor slid a pizza box through a crack in Arya’s door, tossing in a roll of paper towels after it. 

Kicking off his shoes, he put his feet up on the chaise sectional facing the TV. With the arrogance of a spoiled cat, Sansa took the space between his thighs, resting her back on his abdomen, and picked up the remote. 

“Netflix?”

He grunted, why not?

She pressed play on a stand up special, and spent the next hour bouncing from the force of his laughs. They watched three hour long stand ups and a nature documentary, when Sandor tapped her shoulder.

“Need to piss. Where’s the bathroom?”

“At the end of the hall to the right.”

She shut off the TV, put the leftovers in the fridge, and threw the cardboard in the bin, in time to see him stretch his muscled arms and let out a groan. 

“I ought to get goin’ little bird. You look like I feel.”

“How’s that?”

“Worn out.”

On the threshold of the landing, Sansa hugged him from behind, burying her face in the broad sweep of his back. Turning in her grip, he raised her chin and kissed her softly. 

“You leavin’ tomorrow?”

“Monday. I’ll be back on the second.” 

Sandor nodded and palmed the back of her head, lips massaging her mouth as he caressed her spine, provoking pleasurable shivers. 

When they parted, his gray eyes, darkened by lust, mellowed at the happy fatigue on her face. He kissed her forehead and made himself leave before he could fuck it up by asking to stay. 

Sansa turned the dead bolt and headed for bed, out cold from the moment her head hit the pillow. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, she awoke, bolting upright in bed as if she'd been shocked. Her tongue was as dry as sandpaper and stuck to the roof of her mouth and the digital clock on her nightstand read a quarter past two. She got up, head pounding from dehydration, and went to the kitchen. Filling a glass at the fridge, the light illuminated the living room, casting insidious shadows on the walls. In a fog, Sansa drank from her glass. Something wasn’t right. 

There was a creak of a hinge. 

Half-asleep and grumbling, she closed the front door and turned the lock. Her bare feet padded on the floor as she walked in a trance back to her room. In the morning she had no memory of having been up in the night or the carefully muted click of the door across the hall.


	13. XIII

XIII

The halls of their Winterfell home were dressed in fresh cedar garlands and silver ribbons with shiny bells, and the aroma of baked goods and slow roasted meats filled the air. Crisp snow surrounded the house like the bailey of a keep and a fire burned in the living room day and night. 

The first night Sansa and her siblings returned, they decorated the tree, a stupendous sixteen foot Nordmann fir. Jon and Robb took turns on the ladder hanging ornaments for Brandon and Rickon while Arya flung tinsel on in clumps. Sansa and her mother supervised from the sofa with the help of a bottle of wine.   


“Careful Rickon!” Catelyn said, jumping halfway out of her seat. Her son played with the glass direwolf ornament as if it were one of his hardier toys. Jon snuck up and plucked it from his hands. 

“Arya, you’re doing it again! Make it even. It’s tinsel, not silly string,” Sansa directed her younger sister. 

“Mom, did Sansa tell you about her new friend?” Arya asked, snide and still bent out of shape from their interview with the police who pulled Gendry in the next day for a statement. 

Damnit. Sansa bit her tongue on a retort. Anything she said would only make matters worse. 

“You made a new friend?” her mother asked, overjoyed. “Sansa, that’s wonderful. I’ve been so worried since...Well, tell me about her.”

Arya snorted and Sansa stalled for time, pretending to take interest in an old family ornament Brandon unwrapped. 

“Mom, is that picture from our trip to Dorne?”

“You know it is. It wasn’t that long ago. Now tell me about your friend, Sansa.”

“We met at school before summer break last year, but we didn’t really start hanging out until this fall.”

“Who’s that?” Robb asked, listening in on their conversation.

“Oh, just a friend,” Sansa said, beginning to sweat. Robb and Jon didn’t know about Sandor either and for good reason. One look at him and she’d never hear the end of it. 

“Do you have any classes together?”

“Uh, no.”   


“What’s her name?”

She’d made it this far without lying. Now was the time to come clean or lie, and she was a terrible liar. 

“Sandor.”

Catelyn made a face. “Sandor? Is this friend a boy?”

Jon and Robb’s heads peeked out from the other side of the tree. 

“Mmhm,” she replied, tight lipped. 

“Ah, I see. I knew this was coming,” her mother perked up. “Tell me all about this charming prince. What does he look like? Do you have a picture?”

“No, no. Not yet.” Sansa stuffed her phone in her back pocket. She’d snapped a shot of him at their apartment when he wasn’t paying attention but she’d be damned if her mother got a look at him before she could lay some groundwork. “He’s tall and has dark hair and gray eyes.”

“Ooo, he sounds handsome.”

“Pfftt!” Arya snickered evilly, backlit by the fire like some sort of demonic spawn sent to torture her sister. . 

Catelyn glanced at her curiously and then to Sansa. 

“What is it your sister seems to think is so funny?”

“She, uh - she doesn’t think he’s good looking.”

“Oh posh, my Sansa wouldn’t settle for any ordinary man. I’m sure he’s striking.”

“More like struck,” Arya joked and Sansa swore she would sneak into her room later that night and smother her with a pillow. 

“And what about his character? Is he a gentleman?” Her mother continued, no longer acknowledging Arya’s disruptions. “Does he treat you like he should?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Good.” Catelyn patted her knee and bent over to help Rickon sort through a box with the old metal train set. 

That night after hot chocolate with marshmallows and a one of a dozen Christmas movies, Sansa belly flopped into bed and checked her phone, smiling to see she had a message from Sandor.

_ "Hey.” _

_ "Hey,” _ she typed back, wondering if he’d see it tonight. Three dots flickered at the bottom of the screen, then stopped. Then flickered again, and stopped again. He didn’t know what to say. Coming to his rescue, she sent:  _ “Just watched Elf with my family. You?” _

_ “Shower.” _

_ “In ur tiny shower?” _

__ _ “That or I gotta use a fuckin’ hose. Too cold for the hose.” _

__ _ “Didn’t think you’d fit.” _

__ Only after she’d hit send on the text did she spot the double entendre. 

_ “I fit in plenty of tight places.” _

Sansa could hear the smirk in his text.

_ “Plenty, huh? Just how many is that?” _

There was a loaded pause from her question before his reply popped up on screen. 

_ “You want to know how many women I’ve fucked?”  _

Yes...and no. She wanted to know the extent of his history but dreaded it too. 

_ “Sort of yes, and sort of no. Does that make sense?” _

__ _ “Yeah."  
_

__ _ “Were you serious with any of them?” _

__ _ “?” _

__ _ “Long term relationships?” _

__ _ “No.” _

__ Lounging on her stack of bulbous pillows, Sansa bit her lip. His experience exceeded hers in sex alone. Somehow, it made her feel better, as if the playing field had leveled. She decided to tease him a little. 

_ “I bet you make buttered noodles for all the ladies you bring home.” _

__ _ “Fuck no. My fuckin’ noodles.” _

__ _ “Okay, but how many other women have you taken axe throwing?” _

__ _ “Never been on a date before you.” _

__ She read and re-read the text. Was he joking?

_ “What? But you’ve been with other women?” _

__ _ “Don’t have to date to fuck.” _

__ A tad vulgar, but point taken. 

_ “Sandor, am I your first?” _ she asked, unable to resist poking fun at him. 

_ “Want to let me return the favor?” _

Sansa buried her face in a pillow to muffle her laughter, unwilling to let him steer the conversation back to her. __

_ “I popped your date cherry!” _

_ “Girl…” _

_ “I’m sorry, it’s just, I hope I was gentle. I didn’t know I was your first.” _

_ “Fuckin’ smart ass.” _

  
  


Over the next week, Sansa went shopping with her family in the expensive Silk District, buying last minute gifts, ice skated with Rickon and Brandon in the park, baked and frosted Sevenmas cookies, and hiked through the snowy hills of their property, enjoying a brief stent of peace and quiet from a full house. 

She texted Sandor good morning every day and good night in the evenings and sent pictures of her and her family around the dinner table, playing monopoly next to the tree, and one of Robb and Jon arm wrestling for the last slice of cheesecake. Part of her wondered if she wasn’t bothering him. He didn’t send any pictures back or carry on lengthy chats with her, but his responses were encouraging, especially at night when he was off from work. On Saturday morning, the day before the last day of Sevenmas, Final Eve, she sent a picture of the turkey she and her mother were preparing to brine. 

_ “It’s twenty pounds. Think it’ll be enough? Lol.” _

_ “Not if I were there - you’d need another fuckin’ bird.” _

__ “Sansa,” Catelyn tapped her shoulder, “hand me the baster, would you?”

She pulled open a drawer and found the plastic bulb syringe stuffed in the back, used just once a year. 

“Thank you, dear. Are you talking with that boy again?” her mother asked, nodding her head to Sansa’s phone. 

“Oh, yes. I was showing him our turkey.”

“What does his family eat for Final Eve?”

“I don’t know. Let me ask.” She typed out:  _ “My mom wants to know what you’re having for dinner tonight?” _

__ He texted her a pic of a six pack of Gravedigger beer in his fridge.

“ _ Ha, ha. And for real food?” _

__ _ “Don’t celebrate Final Eve.” _

__ _ “Not even for the food?” _

__ _ “No point.” _

__ _ “Why not?” _

__ _ “Just me.” _

__ Sansa gazed at her phone, amazed by her stupidity. His parents were dead. His brother was in jail. He didn’t have a family to celebrate Final Eve with. 

_ “So what are you doing tonight?” _

__ She crossed her fingers he would have friends to keep him company. 

_ “Work. Fuckin’ Lannister Final Eve party. They have me bounce the drunks.” _

__ “Sansa, what’s wrong?” her mother asked. “You look sad.”

“He has to work tonight, and I’m a moron. I knew his parents were dead and his brother - he doesn’t speak to his brother.” She ran her hands through her hair, pulling it back tight. “Mom, he’s spending Sevenmas alone or at work and I’ve been texting him pictures of us all week, rubbing it in.”

Catelyn scratched her back soothingly. 

“I’m sure he understands sweetheart. He probably appreciates you sharing some of your Sevenmas with him.”

Her mother’s words went no further than her ears and Sansa shuffled from the room, trying to think of what to say to him. Her feet carried her to her father’s old office, where his desk sat, frozen in time, preserved exactly as he’d left it, down to the last sticky note he’d written - a reminder to pick up Arya and Brandon from school. 

She walked the periphery of the room, glancing over the books on his shelves and the trinkets he brought home from work when he traveled. In a glass case next to the window were his favorites. There were direwolves made from glass, hand carved from wood, or sculpted from stone. The sigil of their family. There was one for each of them. Arya had a wooden wolf her father had purchased in Crossings, a fierce looking wolf perched on a hilltop pedestal, made from black oak and heavy as a brick. Her mother’s wolf was made of glass and surrounded by five pups, one for each of them - save Jon, who’s wolf was of pure white ivory, sitting as if in quiet contemplating. Sansa’s had been carved from the wood of an old rosewood that had fallen in King’s Landing inside the ancient palace gardens. It’d been given as a gift to her father and he, in turn, had given it to her. 

She pulled the knob on the glass case and took hers out, admiring the rich red color and the intricate details of her wolf’s tail and fur. Where Arya’s and Rickon’s wolves appeared wild and dangerous, hers had an air of serenity and grace. She wiped off the dust and placed it back on the shelf, brushing a tear from the corner of her eyes. 

Gods she missed him. 

“Sansa?” Her mother stood in the doorway. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she sniffed. “I was looking at the wolves Dad collected for us and I …”

“I know. I feel that way too whenever I come in here.” Catelyn took her daughter in a half hug with an arm on her waist. “It feels like he never left.”

Sansa paused as she closed the case. On the second shelf down were the wooden figures of the Seven.

“Where did he get these?”

“A maester discovered them in the ruins of the old Winterfell Keep. They belonged to our ancestors, so he gave them to your father.” Her mother removed the figure of the Father, tracing the face with her finger. “Do you remember how he use to set each out on their respective night of Sevenmas?”

“No.” Sansa couldn’t recall a time when she’d seen any of the figures out of the case. 

“We only did it once or twice before we had to stop.”

“Why?”

“You and your brothers and sister were terrified of the last night, dedicated to the Stranger. One year he put it out and we were up the entire night with you, Arya, Robb and Jon, checking closets and under beds. We couldn’t get any of you to sleep.”

Sansa didn’t remember any of it, but took out the Stranger, holding up the apparently terrifying figure from her youth. A cloaked figure with no discernable face. 

“I always thought it odd to end Sevenmas with the Stranger.”

“It’s the Stranger who comes to us last, shepherding us to the next life.”

Goosebumps popped out on Sansa’s arms and she set the wood doll back down. These things that had been her father’s, his keepsakes, stabbed at her heart. Would she ever stop feeling his absence? 

Only it wasn’t just his absence that pained her. 

“Mom, I need a favor.”


	14. XIV

XIV

Fuck, he was beat. The Lannister cunts party had gone on all night, the booze flowing freely into the early hours of the Seventh Day. It’d kicked off to a rough start when the prick prince arrived arm in arm with a terrified girl who was already looking for an exit before the party had begun. 

The little snot was drunk and grabby, visibly groping her in front of guests and becoming more aggressive by the minute. Cersei took him aside, hissing at him to mind himself in front of clients and family, but the rotten fuck was impervious to her recriminations, loudly berating his mother and calling his date a prude and a whore in one confused and inebriated speech. Trant made a grab for the girl to take her back to Joffrey’s room, but Sandor shoved the toady head first into a brick wall and sent the girl on her way. 

The night had spiraled down from there. Cersei wasn’t far behind her son in her cups and was slurring by eleven, promising larger and larger dividends in the coming year, and Tywin departed soon after, mumbling about the decline of his dynasty in the hands of his incompetent children. 

Jaime put in a brief appearance with Brienne, taking in the scene like a survivor who escaped a pit of cannibal snakes, unable to look away as they ate one another and glad to be free of it. 

“Where’s your date?” he asked Sandor, wryly. “Seems like there’s a pretty little redhead missing.”

Brienne frowned, making no attempt to hide her displeasure of Sandor’s relationship with Sansa. 

“Wouldn’t bring her to this.”

“Yes,” Jaime nodded, casting his eyes over the room. “Not exactly a merry affair is it?” Cersei dropped her glass on the floor, yelling at a prospective investor who was making his excuses to leave. “I think that’s our cue to be off. Happy Sevenmas, Hound, to you and yours.”

Sandor grunted. She was hardly his. Not yet at least. And fuck it if he knew if he wanted her to be. The girl was so far out of his league, he might as well be floating out in fuckin’ space. The pictures of her home were key pieces of evidence in the trial against him. Her home was Gods damned perfect. Perfect house, perfect fuckin’ family, perfect girl, and one day she’d wake the fuck up and realize she was with him, an ugly fuck of a dog. He needed to end it. It wouldn’t last. It couldn’t last.

During the night, he threw two men out the door by their collars and broke the nose of some third rate goon of a wannabe mobster hoping to pressure Cerei into an early distribution of funds. Anyone of any respect had gone long before midnight, and those who stayed were only too happy to continue drinking. There was fuckin’ in the hallways, vomit in the corners, and a mess of empty bottles between plates of half eaten food.

Cercei passed out just after four a.m., spilling a full glass of wine on the front of her dress. Sandor picked her up and dumped her belly down in bed so she could vomit without choking. He found Joffrey soon after that, stumbling and holding on to a wall as he tried to drag a girl hammered to the point of drooling back to one of the rooms. He pushed Joffrey off his feet and into a room, never doubting the cretin wouldn’t remember a fuckin’ thing, and closed the door, calling an Uber to take the girl slathering spit on his arm home. 

At six, he called it a fuckin’ night...day...whatever. Let Trant take the day shift, whenever he woke up. Sandor was going home to get some fuckin’ sleep. He’d be glad to sleep the rest of this Gods forsaken day away. So much the better.

He drove home, slapping his face to stay awake, and parked his truck in the parking lot, sleet coming down in heavy, cold sheets of ice water. 

Sandor ducked his head against his chest and ran from the cab of his truck to the front porch of his apartment, skidding to a halt as he saw her huddled form tucked in by his door. 

“Little bird?”

  
  


Sansa packed her bag in a rush and jumped in a cab to the airport where she sprinted from the check in counter to the terminal half a mile away. She made it just in time for last call on the eight o’clock flight and boarded the plane, excited, but nervous. Would he be happy to see her? Or was it too much too soon? 

There was a three hour layover in New Vale and she paced with butterflies in her stomach up and down the tiny airport, thinking of what she would say, when a message over the loudspeaker announced a delay due to bad weather conditions. She waited an hour. Then two hours more. At two a.m. she and a group of other anxious passengers circled a distraught airline employee. All flights were grounded for at least another six hours. 

Sansa pulled out her phone. There was a train station not far from the airport. If she ran, she could make a connection with one bound for Harrenhal, where she could take the four-thirty to the city. 

Securing her bag to her back, she dashed through the torrential downpour, soaking her clothes. By the time she reached the train station, her teeth chattered so badly, she had to point to the board to indicate which ticket she wanted to buy. 

The rain had seeped into her pack, dousing any hope of changing into something dry, but a friendly attendant found her a blanket and she curled up in her seat. It would be worth it when she got there. Sandor would be warm. The thought put her to sleep. 

A whistle woke her with a start. 

_No!_ She’d slept past her stop. Sansa got off the train at Highgarden, fatigue starting to creep in and anxiety twisting her stomach. She was going to end up stranded on Final Day without her family and without Sandor. 

“Ms. Stark?”

She looked up and saw Tyrion dressed sharply in a button down suit and a gorgeous raven haired woman at his side. 

“Oh, hello,” she said, her voice tired and drawn. 

“I know it’s none of my business, but are you okay?”

“I missed my train. I’m trying to get back to the city and I slept too long. I can’t find another train until two this afternoon and it stops at every station from here to -”

Tyrion put his hands up as she started to dissolve into tears. 

“As it happens, my companion, Shae, and I are heading back to town if you care to join us?”

She hesitated. He seemed nice and he’d been perfectly polite even during her horrible date with Joffrey, but she didn’t know him, not really. 

The raven woman sashayed over. She had a foreign accent Sansa couldn’t place, and her eyes were sharp, but friendly. 

“You want to get back?”

She nodded.

“We can do that. There is plenty of room in the car and Tyrion will behave, or he will have me to contend with. Text a friend, or your family. Let them know where you are and who you are with. Then, we can not kill you, for we would be suspects.”

Sansa’s mouth hung open. She couldn’t argue that logic. 

“Lovely girl, close your mouth. The flies will get in.” Shae tapped the underside of her jaw and Sansa snapped it shut. 

She debated it another moment and, throwing caution to the wind, agreed. It was a chance and she’d take it. 

They piled into Tyrion’s classic Bentley continental, it’s backseat two plush sofa-esque seats facing each other like the inside of a carriage.

Shae sat draped over Tyrion, casually skimming her nails through his hair. Sansa wanted to fall asleep in the cozy cab, but she wouldn’t take the risk with strangers, no matter how seemingly charitable. Tyrion’s eyes closed and soon he snored softly, his head cradled on his companion’s chest. 

“How long have you two been together?” Sansa whispered. 

“Not long. We met on First Night.”

“As in First Night six days ago?”

“Does this surprise you?”

“Uh, a little. You two appear very...at ease with one another.”

“It’s not - how would you say?” she snapped her manicured fingers to bring the right words to mind. “It’s not our first rodeo.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You are young. You will learn, in time, what it is that you like in a partner, like developing a taste for wine. You sample a little here, a little there, some sweet, some dry, others acidic or sour. Then, one day, you take a sip of something so pleasing that it stays with you forever. You crave it, thirst for it. No more do you taste at random. You search for the flavor you crave and - if you’re like Tyrion or myself - when you find it, you drink deeply and often. As he likes to say,” she stroked the curly hair out of his face, “the only thing certain about the future is how uncertain it is. We must drink our fill when we can, it might be our last taste.”

“This from a man who owns a bar,” Sansa grinned, rubbing her tired eyes. 

“Indeed.”

“Do you think it’s possible to find the right...one, without sampling the entire menu?”

“Mmmmm,” Shae hummed, her eyes drifting shut. “It’s good if you can. Too many are vile.” The woman rested her chin on Tyrion’s head and her breaths softened. 

A quarter after five, the driver took the off ramp towards the north east side of the city. She could recall the name of Sandor's apartment complex and with a little help from G-Maps, they reached his place just ten minutes later. 

Tyrion woke up as the car pulled up to the sidewalk. 

“Pleasure to see you again Ms. Stark.”

“I can’t thank you enough Mr. Lannister.”

He grimaced, the bridge of his nose furrowing into a crease. 

“Tyrion, please.”

“Sansa, please.”

“Very well, Sansa. Have a very merry Sevenmas.”

“You as well and, would it be alright if I brought a friend to your restaurant? I’m not a member, but -”

“Sansa, bring anyone you like, save my nephew, and I’ll have a table ready and waiting.”

She took his small hand in hers and gripped it tight. 

“Thank you. Merry Sevenmas to you and Shae.”

Sansa climbed out of the Bentley and into the rain, using her soggy bag as a shield. Hurrying to the door of Sandor's apartment, she rang the bell, the bite of the wind freezing the water on her body. She hugged her pack to her chest, shivering, and rang the bell again. Nothing. Her numb knuckles rapped on the door. A minute went by and no answer. 

He must be fast asleep, she reasoned, tugging her cell out of her pocket and pressed the screen button on. 

_No, no, no, no._

Her phone had died and she had no way to charge it. She knocked and pressed the doorbell repeatedly, but there was no answer or sounds of movement inside. Thunder cracked overhead and the rain poured from the sky, the icy winds stealing her heat. Backing up against his door under the small porch cover, she sank down to her bottom and hunched her knees to her chest. She wanted to cry. Thirteen hours from Winterfell to this moment, and he wasn’t even home. 

_Stupid. Idiot. Half-wit._

The cement was an ice block under her bottom and it wasn’t long before her body shook from the cold. Slowly, a drowsiness fell over her like a warm blanket, lulling her to sleep. On the precipice between the waking world and darkness, a voice beckoned her with a rasp. 

“Little bird?” Sandor repeated, bending down on one knee and lifting her head. Fuck, her lips were blue, her skin was ashen, and she was soaked to the bone. He opened the door and carried her in, dropping her bag on the kitchen linoleum. “Sansa,” he said, gently shaking her. “Wake up, girl, you gotta wake up.”

Her shallow breaths scared him and she lay motionless on the bed, her limbs stiff and curled to her chest. He cranked on the heater and looked at her pensively. Fuck it. She could yell at him when she felt better. 

“Little bird, I’m gonna undress you. Not gonna hurt you, okay?” He said gently, and rolling her side to side before lifting her chest off the bed, he removed her wet jacket, shirt, and bra, keeping her naked chest covered with a blanket. He went through similar motions with her pants, but left her underwear on, and tucked her into his comforter like a puffy cotton mummy. “Sansa,” he fingered her chin and thought he saw her eyes flicker to him. Cautiously optimistic, he hurried to his shower and cranked on the warm water and plugged up the drain. When the tub had filled, he returned to the bedroom. She was shivering. 

_Thank fuck._

“Little bird?” Her eyes were shut tight and he could hear her teeth clicking together. He picked her up gingerly, peeling back the comforter and feeling the violent quakes of her muscles. Her skin was frosty on his as he lowered her slowly into the tub and snatched a towel off the rack. She sank into the tepid water and Sandor positioned the towel so that it clung to her in the water, preserving some semblance of her privacy. 

He set his watch to three minutes and sat back against the wall, holding her hand in the water. When the three minutes were up, he drained out half the water and refilled it with progressively hotter water until steam rose off the surface and fogged up the mirror. Gradually, her trembling subsided, her muscles unlocked, and she looked at him through half lidded eyes. 

“Better, little bird?”

She nodded weakly. 

“I need sleep. You?”

Another nod. 

“Come on,” he said, giving her a steadying hand as she got up on wobbly legs. Barely able to stand, he held on to her sides. “You’re no good to walk.” Sandor lifted her arms around his neck and scooped her up in a clean towel, walking her back to his bedroom. He sat up her on the side of the bed and dried her arms, legs, and back while she feebly patted the cloth over her chest, stomach and groin. 

From a drawer in his closet, he produced a long sleeved tee-shirt for her to wear. She swam in the oversize garment, and he rolled up the sleeves to her wrists. 

“Will you -?” She asked, motioning to stand.

Sandor braced her under her armpits while she stood and took off her wet underwear, his shirt covering her bottom and upper thighs. Lifting the covers, she slid into his bed, and he threw an extra blanket on for good measure. 

“I’ll be the couch. Yell if you need somethin’.”

Enervated, Sansa gripped his hand. 

“Stay,” she commanded hoarsely.

Too tired to argue, and willing to take any excuse to sleep in his own bed, he grunted and pulled off his stinking shirt and pants, and put on a loose pair of sweatpants before laying down beside her. He shifted to give her space, but she snuggled into his side, resting her back against his ribs and her head on the crook of his shoulder. 

_Warm_ , she thought from the exhausted recesses of her mind, the nightmarish trip back to the city forgotten as his heat coursed through her. 

Sandor raveled his arm around her and closed his eyes. The last day of Sevenmas and she was here, laying in his bed, asleep in his arms. Pressing her close, he kissed her head and fell into a dreamless sleep.


	15. XV

XV

Sansa’s eyelids parted at the splash of sunshine across her brow and the increasing crescendo of the snores of a bear. She faced a window with it’s blinds open and facing a shrub. The storm had receded and the sky had cleared. 

She sat up, her body aching and sore, and looked down at the enormous man sound asleep in the bed with her. He snored with gusto as he slumbered on his back, a possessive arm wrapped securely around her middle. The blanket came up to his stomach, leaving his chest and arm exposed. Biting her lip, she reached out, lightly brushing her fingers through the hair on his chest and tracing the outlines of his muscles. They’d shared a bed. It was the first night she’d slept with a man, in the literal sense.

_ If only _ , she thought, imagining what might’ve been had things gone the way she intended. She’d rehearsed it a thousand times between here and Winterfell, jumping into his strong arms the moment he opened the door and watching his surprise transform into a smirk. 

_ “Couldn’t make it two fuckin’ weeks?” _

And then he’d kiss her in that slow, seductive way that he had, licking her tongue, sucking on her lips, and sending tingling sensations to the nerves in her core. It’d been a fantastic daydream that had all gone to hell. She caressed his cheek with a single nail. Nothing. Sandor was out cold and dead to the world. 

Her stomach growled and her bladder twinged, painfully full. She slipped out of his grasp, placing a pillow where she’d slept, and silently crept down the hall to the bathroom. Groaning at her reflection in the mirror, she saw the remnants of last night in the heavy bags beneath her eyes. She was pale like Casper, her hair was a rats nest of tangles. Thank Gods she’d awoken first. 

She relieved her bladder then found a cupboard with clean towels, showering and basking in the searing hot water. He had the basics, a soap bar and shampoo, and when she finished, she delighted in his scent on her skin. 

Wearing a towel, she peeked into his room and grinned. He cuddled the pillow she’d left in her place and had stretched out his legs in a V, taking up the new empty space in the bed. His snores had quieted from that of a bear to a dog. She stood over him for a moment, taking the opportunity to admire him unobserved. 

He’d let his hair down before going to bed and the wild blacks strands clung to his forehead and cheeks, hiding the worst of his scars and what was left of his ear. Her thumb glided over the ruined flesh. She’d meant to ask if he had felt her first kiss. But the scars were taboo for now.  


The rest of him was a feast for the eyes, from his thick fingers and powerful arms, to the broad shoulders corded in muscle. The temptation to feel and spread her hands on his body was linked with a desire to taste him, to use her mouth to explore more than his kisses. And what would it be like to be above him while they touched? Her heartbeat quickened at the thought of him beneath her in bed, thrusting up and sliding in, gripping her thighs as she rode him and moaning with every buck of her hips.

Hot and sweating from her palms, pits, and groin, she shook the fantasy out her head. 

_ We’re not there yet. Not yet. _

Sansa opened his dresser drawers and fished out a new shirt and pair of shorts that fit her like capris, refusing to stay up no matter how tightly she cinched them. She refolded the shorts and put them away. His shirt fit like a moomoo, she’d just have to remember not to bend over.

Her bag hadn’t moved from where Sandor had dropped it that morning, and sat in a tiny pool of water. Unzipping it, she fished out her phone and connected it to a charger in the kitchen, and hung her sodden clothes in the bathroom to dry. 

Head throbbing in tandem with her pulse, Caffeine withdrawal or dehydration? In all likelihood, both. She found a battered old pot tucked into a corner on the counter and a can of coffee grounds in the fridge. Filling up the pot and a large glass of water, Sansa rummaged through his cupboards for something to eat. There wasn’t much. Dry granola, no milk, butter, noodles, beer, an unopened jar of pasta sauce, stale bagels, and mustard. A solid block of ground beef in the freezer supported a tub of vanilla ice cream sealed shut by frosted condensation. 

_ Spaghetti and meatballs it is. _

  
  


The smell of coffee woke him up, his head pounding from the late night and long nap. Sandor peered down at the pillow he was hugging to his chest and glared. What was he? Some fuckin’ six year old with a stuffed animal? The smell of her hair lingered sweetly on his sheets and looked up at the open door to his bedroom. What was she up to now? 

Groggy, he threw his bulky legs over the side of the bed and turned his clock to check the time. A few minutes past three. He’d slept most of the day. He sniffed. Little bird had been busy. 

Lumbering to the bathroom, he rinsed the sour taste of morning breath out his mouth and pissed out a liter of fluid. When he came out of the bathroom, he poked his head around the corner. She was in his kitchen, mug in one hand, spoon in the other, stirring one of his few pots atop the stove. 

Spying him, she smiled softly. 

“Coffee?”

“Hm,” Sandor grunted, and the moment her back was turned to him, he took a whiff of his pits. Shit - he stank worse than his gym bag. How the hell had she managed to sleep next to him? 

“Here you go -” Sansa handed him a warm cup of black coffee. “I couldn’t find any cream and sugar, so I’m assuming you take it black?”

He nodded and set the mug down. 

“What’re you doin’ here?”

Her smile wavered at the tone of his voice, a troubling growl from the back of his throat. 

“I - I uh, came to spend the last day of Sevenmas with you.”

He approached her, his face a grim scowl, and caged her against the counter top, laying his palms flat on the surface. 

“Why?” 

“I wanted to,” she whispered, bracing for his anger at the twitch of his lip, his scars drawn thin on his clenched jaw.

Sandor lowered his head next to hers. She smelled like his soap and he realized she’d showered, her damp hair combed and dripping down her shoulders, covered in another one of his shirts. Dry fuck him in the desert if he didn’t like how she looked in his clothes and the view of her creamy long legs. His cock stiffened. 

“Don’t need your pity, girl.”

She fisted a hand in his beard and used it to lead him by the jaw, looking him in the eye. He read her expression and saw determination edged with uncertainty. 

“Sansa,” she said in a quiet command, “not ‘girl’. And I didn’t come here out of pity. I missed you. I wanted to come.” Her hand released his beard, but he clapped it to his jaw and lifted her by the thighs onto the counter.

Here with him, she’d said? What the fuck for? It sure as hell wasn’t his charming personality. 

“Go on, little bird -” Sandor parted her silken thighs easily, chuckling as her bravado disappeared - “tell me  _ how _ you want to cum.” Centering his groin at the juncture of her thighs, his fingers pushed the hem of the shirt up her legs. 

“S-Sandor…”

“Sansa,” he growled her name against her throat, hands moving further up towards her hips. “You want my fingers, my tongue, or my cock?”

She was reduced to incoherent noises as he kissed and nipped his way up her neck, hitching her legs up to straddle his pelvis. He swallowed her moan with his mouth, grinding his erection between her legs, and gripped the round swell of her naked ass. The moist heat of her core penetrated the thin material of his sweatpants and he groaned hungrily from the back of his throat. His little bird was wet for him. Burning and manic to feel her slick silk on his cock, he picked her up off the counter, Sansa clinging to his neck, ankles locked in a knot on his back. 

The pot on the stove began to sizzle and spit, spilling water out and onto the burner. 

“Fuck,” Sandor swore and nearly tore the dial off the stove. His chest expanded outward in a deep breath. The girl’s thighs squeezed his sides, begging him to continue. Summoning what will power he had, he set her tousled and dazed on her feet. He’d pushed her again, taking without asking. Sweeping her hair to her back, he gritted her teeth. A path of red marks where his teeth had imprinted her flesh decorated the long, narrow neck from collar to ear. 

_ Too rough you fucker _ , he cursed himself viciously _. _

Surfacing from her reverie, she touched her swollen lips with her fingers, meeting his strained expression of self contempt.

“Gonna go take a cold shower,” he muttered.

_ No! _ Gods, she had ruined the moment. Why hadn’t she turned down the heat on the water?! 

“Okay,” she squeaked, but as he turned, she murmured his name and he stopped. “Were you - Could we...”

“What, little bird?” 

Her shoulders slouched from embarrassment. She wished she had his talent for speaking his mind. 

“I’m making dinner,” Sansa said, too craven to simply state her desires. “Are you hungry?”

His gray eyes locked on hers. She was holding something back. 

“Aye. Starvin’.”

“Good. Go clean up and I’ll have it ready when you’re done.”

She watched him go and the instant the bathroom door shut, she braced her arms on the counter, her legs shaking and thighs clenching for a release. Gods, she’d wanted him to do it. She’d wanted him to take her to bed and pin her to the mattress with his body. She wanted to undress him and feel him without a barrier. 

Sansa whimpered softly. She was so close she ached. 

Splashing cold water on her face, she tried to focus her attention on dinner. 

In the shower, Sandor cranked the tap to ice cold, willing the persistent fucker at his middle to go down. 

_ Slow down, asshole! _ He yelled in his head. There was passion in her wide blue eyes, but he also saw fear. No more rough play with the girl. That shit was for the hyenas that were brave enough to take him home from the bars. 

He toweled off and got dressed in the bedroom, tying his hair back and combing his beard. 

Sansa finished setting the table and her bright blue eyes flickered up, hearing his heavy footsteps approaching from the hall. She smiled into her hand, her cheeks rosy and hair tied up in a messy bun. He’d dressed up, wearing a navy button down shirt tucked into his slacks. 

“What?” Sandor asked, as she stood staring at him. 

“You look nice.” She picked at his tee-shirt billowing out from her sides. “I had this whole plan...I brought a dress, but it’s still soaked from last night -”

He crossed the room and cupped her chin and tilted her head back. 

“Need me to tell you how close you came to gettin’ fucked in that shirt?”

Sansa snorted, shaking her head and laughing. 

“Have I ever told you how much I enjoy your unique brand of candor?”

“Filth and facts. I gotta knack for it.”

“Take a seat and I’ll get the food.”

It felt awkward to be served at his own table and to see it set as it’d never been before. Paper plates had a spoon on one side and a knife and fork on the other. She’d even folded the napkins into fans. 

He smelled cooked meat and spices, and what he was fairly certain was pasta sauce. His stomach bellowed out a whale’s mating call. 

Sansa lugged in a large bowl of noodles and placed it at the center and went back for a steaming pan fresh from the over, setting it on his left for him to serve them both. 

Salivating, he asked: “How the fuck did you know?”

“Know what?"

“My favorite,” Sandor answered, spooning a good three-fourths of the meatball tray onto his plate. 

“Don’t you want some noodles?”

He stabbed and twirled a fork in the bowl, mixing the spaghetti into his sauce. She held out her plate and he gave her a sardonic smirk.

“Where’s yours?”

She pursed her lips, pouting at him and wiggling the plate. He spooned a heaping mountain of noodles and covered them with one measly meatball. 

“I get one? I’m pretty sure I made twenty.”

“You’re little. I’m big.”

“Good sir -”

“Not this sir shit again.”

“Ah, yes, good Sir Shit,” she beckoned, and he grinned at her play on his words. “I’m waiting.”

Another meatball plopped onto her plate. 

“At least give me more sauce. No one likes a dry noodle.”

His shoulders shook with the force of his laughter. Pushing out of his chair, he held up a finger for her to wait. 

“Forgot somethin’.”

She heard him opening and closing a cupboard and he came out with a plastic bottle of dried Parmesan cheese.

“The good shit, for special occasions,” he winked. 

The two dug in, eating as if at two separate dinners. Sansa cutting her noodles into neat bites and chewing with her mouth closed while Sandor slurped his pasta so fast Sansa worried if she would be able to perform the Heimlich maneuver on someone his size. As a gracious host, he portioned her one more meatball before he dusted the rest and afterwards, they cleared the table and cleaned dishes together. 

Sandor got into the fridge for a beer and some water for her, feeling guilty he had nothing she’d like to drink. If it wasn’t Sevenmas, he could have gone to the store. 

They sat on his couch, an old brown faux leather sofa, it’s cushions flat and worn from use. 

“So how the fuck did you end up frozen on my doorstep?” he asked, spreading his arm on the cushion behind her back. 

“Because the big oaf who was supposed to be home, wasn’t.”

“It’s called a phone, little bird.”

“Mine died on the way here.” She recounted her late night adventure from Winterfell, the airport, the delay, the freezing rain, and catching the train. “I thought I was stuck when I missed the connection back here. Highgarden didn’t have any return trains for hours.”

“Highgarden? Fuckin’ hells.”

“Luckily, Tyrion - he’s Cer -”

“I know who he is,” Sandor growled. 

“Oh, well, he gave me a ride in his car -”

“You got in a fuckin’ car with the halfling?!” He bolted up. “What the hells were you thinking?"

“That I was cold, and alone, and I didn’t want to spend the last day of Sevenmas at a train station.” Sandor bit his tongue to rein in his mouth. She’d had a miserable night. “And it wasn’t just him. He had a date, a woman named Shae. They slept most of the way here and dropped me off in the parking lot. I didn’t think to call you to check if you were home because...well, I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Hm,” he grunted. “You shoulda stayed home.”

“Do you mean that?” she whispered, the hurt leaking out of her voice. 

Sandor pulled her to him, hugging her to his chest as he leaned back and put his feet up. 

“Glad you’re here. Best fuckin’ Sevenmas I’ve ever had.”

She kissed her chest and angled her face to his. 

“Oh! I almost forgot, I have a gift for you!”

Shit. He balled up his fists. He had nothing for her. 

Sansa hopped up and fetched a limp paper bag from her pack.

“The packaging is wet, but it should be fine,” she said, holding it out for him to take. 

Angrier than he’d ever been with himself, Sandor accepted it with a pained smile, tearing  the wrapping off the small item. Inside was a figurine, carved out of onyx.

“A wolf?”

“A hound,” she answered, scooting closef and leaning in to show him. “See how the neck is smooth and the tail is narrow? My mother said my father received it as a gift on a trip to Casterly Rock. Their bannerman were the Cleganes and their sigil was a hound.”

Silent, he thumbed the cool black stone, his face an unreadable mask. 

Shifting in her seat, anxious at his lack of a reaction, Sansa went on, explaining:

“You see, my father collected direwolves, my family’s sigil, and he found one for each of us. I remember finding this one when I was little. He kept it on a cigar box next to these porcelain horses I liked. He always said that a wolf belongs with it’s pack, so I asked him why it wasn’t in the glass case with our direwolves. I remember his smile,” she said softly, “when he explained it was a hound, and I’d forgotten what he told me until I saw it again. Aeternum fide -”

“Forever loyal,” Sandor translated, his voice hoarse. 

She sat beside him, quiet and waiting for him to say something more. When a minute passed, she grew restless. 

“I know you don’t call yourself a dog because you like them, but I -”

He set the stone figurine down delicately on the coffee table, and wordlessly wrapped Sansa in his arms, nuzzling into her neck. She could feel the bristles of his beard on her chest and his warm breath on her throat, his arms squeezing her as if she’d bolt if he didn’t hold on. 

They stayed that way for some time before he let go, kissing her cheeks, the center of her forehead, and lastly, her lips. 

“Little bird, I got nothin’ to give you.”

“You stopped Joffrey from hurting me, gave me a ride in the middle of the night, and rescued me from freezing to death in the cold. I don’t need a gift.”

“You’ll spoil this dog.”

“And you,” she said, regarding him ironically, “can’t fathom a gift given without expectation.”

The girl was right. He’d never been given anything without strings attached. Another point for her, he grumbled.

Sansa scrutinized him, as if working out her chances in a gamble. 

“I wouldn’t mind a dance.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gets a bit explicit in this chapter - just a heads up :)

XVI

“What?” Sandor asked, hoping he’d heard wrong. 

“A dance. If you want to give me something, I’ll take a dance.”

He blew out a breath. Fuck it. She’d gone through hell to spend the day with him, made him dinner, and brought him a present. 

Standing, he put out his hand, bowing slightly. Wasn’t that how the prissy cunts did it in the movies? She accepted his hand and they moved to the center of his living room, Sandor inadvertently tensing.

“You’ve never danced with someone, have you?” she asked.

“Dance just fine in a ring,” he grumbled.

“No punching,” Sansa teased, and positioned one of his hands at her waist. “This hand here, and hold my hand like this -” she placed her palm in his. “You lead.”

“Where?”

Laughing, she patted the outside of his right thigh. 

“Step forward with your right first, then to the side with your left. Ready?”

“Hm.” 

“Go - Ouch!” she hopped on one foot. “No, no, I’m okay.”

“Gonna stomp your feet into pancakes, little bird.” 

“I thought boxers had good footwork?”

“Fuck-” he threw up his hands in defeat. 

“Here,” Sansa said patiently, “hold your arms however you want. I’ll teach you to waltz like a boxer.”

“The fuck is a waltz?”

“It’s the name of... don't worry about it. If we were in the ring and I took a step back with my left -” she did so - “you would?”

Sandor stalked forward on his right before she finished speaking. 

“And if I dodged to the left?”

He mirrored her and stepped to his right. 

“But if I went on the offensive -”

Sandor snorted and she stepped forward with her right, pretending to put up her dukes. He moved back in time with her step, and predicted the next step to his left. 

“See? Easy.”

She raised her arm for him to take, but he didn’t wait for her prompt, smoothing a hand along the dip in her back. 

“Ready?” he rasped, sending a shiver down her spine. 

Speechless, she nodded, captivated by the dark mists of gray in his eyes. He led her in a simple classic waltz, making circles in the living room, connected at the stomach and hips. On the fourth circuit, she glided out and twirled, careful not to spin too hard and expose her bottom. He reeled her in, her back to his chest, fingering the side of her hip. 

Sansa felt the chiseled build of his torso against her spine and the solid bulge of his erection on her bottom. The quivering ache in her core reawoke, slickening her thighs and cramping her middle. He’d stopped dancing, running his hands up and down her stomach and thighs, avoiding her groin and breasts. She could have screamed from frustration. 

“Sandor…”

“Hm?”

His splayed hands on her abdomen hinted at descending down her center, but went no  further than her hips. 

“I -” The words stuck to her tongue like peanut butter. 

Her dilemma amused him. He could guess what she wanted by the breathy moan of her voice. Kissing her neck, he wrapped his hand on her throat, tilting her jaw up and exposing more skin, and skirted a hand up the inside of her thigh. She braced for his hand, arching her pelvis, but he changed directions, chuckling at her soft, pleading whine.

“Sandor,” she moaned his name again, “please.”

Hot breath flamed against her hair as his fingers indented her skin, the gentle strokes turning into a firm grip. 

“Little bird,” he rasped, “didn’t think you were ready for that.”

He was right, she knew it, but she was past the point of control, drawing her hands up his thighs and pressing her ass to his crotch. 

“I’m not,” Sansa whimpered, “but I need you. I need -”

Sandor spun her around and fisted her hair, lowering his face to hers. Eyes clouded with lust, she swayed in his grip, her breasts rising and falling with her breaths. 

“You trust me?” 

Barely able to move her head, she managed a slight nod and he crushed his lips to hers, opening her mouth and sucking on her tongue. 

Fuck, she tasted good. 

Walking her backwards, he tipped her down on the couch, trapping her under his hips and resting between her thighs. She ground on him, his shirt she wore riding up to her belly, revealing her naked pelvis and a small thatch of auburn hair. Groaning from the inviting squeeze of her thighs, Sandor thrusted and urged her to move in sync with him, her small sighs all the encouragement he needed. 

She wasn’t ready for his cock, but she was begging for release, and by Gods did he want to give it to her. Problem was, he’d only ever used his prick on a woman. His sexual experiences amounted to a series of quick fucks. Drunk, dumb, butterfaced, or all three, the women he’d slept with hadn’t wanted anything more than to slide down his pole. 

Disentangling himself, he leaned back and swiped her legs off the couch and tugged her up and down on top of him so that once more her back was on his chest.

“What -”

“Spread your legs,” he ordered, using his feet on her calves. From his vantage point, he  could see the length of her body fanned across him and he scrunched up the shirt to get a look at her pelvis. 

Sansa squirmed nervously, shifting to limit his view and maintain what modesty she could. 

Taking her hand, he set it over the top of her curls, his fingers aligned with hers. 

“Show me,” he said, gently pressing one of her fingers into her warm folds. 

No, Gods no, she thought, heart beating out of her chest. She shook her head forcefully and retracted her hand. 

“I can’t -”

“You can.”

“It’s too embarrassing.”

“You ever imagine me finger fuckin’ you?”

She paused and he had his answer. 

“You think about that when you’re alone?”

“Yes,” Sansa answered, closing her eyes, resting her head on his shoulder

Sandor dipped a finger through her wet curls and over the top of the sensitive lips. Never penetrating, he stayed on the surface, the tips of his fingers featherlight on her skin. 

She bucked up, enticing him to delve in and stroke her, but he continued brushing her lightly, back and forth, back and forth, driving her out of her mind. 

“Deeper,” she said, and he curled his index finger fractionally, staying in the shallows of her heat. Thrusting up into his hand, she craved contact. “Sandor, deeper. Please, touch me.” 

“Where?” he asked, tempting her to teach him. 

Restless and riding the edge of her sanity, Sansa gripped his hand and pushed his finger to her core, where the bundle of nerves cried out for stimulation. She guided him in a slow circle around her clitoris, writhing whenever his calloused digit swept across it. The thick, tough fingers fondling her were a welcome sensation on tender flesh, and Sansa held him by the wrist, rocking her hips with the strokes of his fingers. 

Entranced, Sandor watched the show on his lap while she rode his hand, his finger diving in and out of her silken depths. With his other hand, he pinched her nipple, massaging the swollen breast that fit in the palm like a ripened orange. His dick throbbed, taking the friction of her bouncing behind. Why the fuck hadn’t he picked a better position, he groaned silently. He had two fuckin’ hands, one for him, one for her. Fuckin’ dumbass, parkin’ her right on his crotch. 

Sansa cried out, hips bucking erratically and legs trembling in the rise of her climax. Waves of tingling pleasure coursed through her, fluid spreading down her thighs and coating his fingers. She was so close, so close, just a little bit more. 

“Fuck, Sansa,” Sandor groaned, grinding his erection into her backside. “Keep singin’ for me, little bird.”

And the rough rasp of his voice sent her over the edge. Neck and back arched, legs flexed and quivering, her breaths ceased as her nerves fired out from her core, down the inside of her thighs to her toes, up her spine, and through her chest to her throat where it flowed out in a series of gasps. Sandor stroked her pearly mass through her peak, focused on the spasms of her flesh on his finger. 

She remembered to breathe when black spots dotted her vision, inhaling the scent of her release. Sitting up with his help, she heard the sound of a zipper. Blinking her eyes open, she glanced down at the noise and saw his considerable shaft springing free of his pants. 

Unapologetic, Sandor took himself in hand, unable to wait another second longer. Fascinated, Sansa watched his giant grip move up and down his tumescent member. She licked her dry lips, considering the size and girth of a man aroused. With four brothers, she’d seen her fair share of naked boys, but this was different than the occasional floppy penis of a sibling streaking from the pool in or the house after a bath. 

It didn’t seem plausible that something so large should fit comfortably inside her, let alone bring her pleasure.

His breaths were ragged as he sped up his pace, knowing she watched him and getting off on it. Coating his shaft in the fluid she’d left on his hand, it mixed with small droplets of cum, greasing the skin so that if he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend it was the narrow walls of her body constricting him in sweet friction.

Reaching out, she caught his wrist.

“Can I?”

He bit down on a laugh. She looked terrified, though he couldn’t say if her fear was of him or his dick or her own lack of knowledge on hand jobs. 

Moving his hand, he put his arms around the back of the couch, giving her free reign to do as she liked. 

Sansa skimmed a finger down the length and he offered her a broad grin, his head resting on the cushion. She traced him with her fingers, getting used to the feel of him. The skin was smooth as polished marble, and nearly as firm, and pale red with a pair of pulsating vessels. Mimicking the motion of his hand, she cinched her palm, squeezing him timidly.

He lay a meaty hand over hers and showed her the pressure he liked. 

“Don’t gotta be gentle,” he instructed, kissing her cheek and moving her hand in his. 

Like him, she learned quickly, applying two hands to cover more surface and rub the head of his cock on every downstroke. 

Eyes shut tight, chin on his chest, Sandor’s jaw hung open in ecstasy. 

Leaning over his lap, Sansa churned the rigid tissue and made a mental note to undress him next time. His pants and shirt blocked any view she might have had of his body and any chance to taste him, to lick the salt off his skin and feel with more than her hands. 

She paused, then lowered her head, kissing the tip of his cock, the moisture glazing her lips. Her tongue appraised the salty fluid, licking the outside of her mouth.

Sandor fisted the cushions, eyes set on her pink tongue and cherry red lips. 

Clear blue irises gauged his reaction.

“Would you...should I…?” she asked, swallowing anxiously.

“You want to?”  


“I wanted to try.”

_ Thank fuck _ , he groaned in his head. The girl’s hands were great, but the instant her lips met his dick, all he wanted was her mouth on his cock. 

Sandor gathered her bounty of hair in his hand, resisting the impulse to do anything more than hold it out of her way. 

Dipping her head, she kissed the head once more, closing her eyes and taking him in a little at a time, swirling her tongue as she discovered the taste no different than that of the rest of his skin, salted by the beads of fluid dripping steadily from him, lubricating her mouth and lips and stimulating the glands in her cheeks. 

“Fuck, little bird,” he groaned, relishing the slickness of her tongue. He wasn’t going to last long. 

She built a rhythm based on his gentle thrusts, taking him as far as the back of her throat and sealing her lips in a tight ring on his girth. Stopping her in just in time, he raised her head up, took over with his hand, and vigorously stroked his shaft, moaning at the ceiling and ejaculating onto his shirt over his abdomen. 

Transfixed, Sansa memorized the look of pure bliss on his features. When he recovered, his gray eyes, satiated and content, sought her out.

Gods damn him if she wasn’t the best thing to happen to him in his Gods forsaken life. 

“Merry Sevenmas Sandor,” she said with a small smile.

He kissed her then, wrapping her snug in his arms.

“Stay,” he asked, pressing his lips hard against hers. He didn't care if she wasn't ready to fuck yet, he'd be happy if she wanted was to lay next to him for the rest of the night.  


Nodding, she straddled his lap, pushing her tongue into his mouth and deepening the  kiss. He picked her up and walked them back to his bedroom, laying her down and climbing on top. She undid the button of his shirt and he threw it off, his pants not far behind. He peeled off her borrowed top and kissed her until his lips grew sore and his crotch raw from chafing in his boxers. They soaked the sheets in their sweat and tossed in the covers, seeking each other’s pleasure with exploring fingers and eager lips. 

In the late hours of the night, Sandor lay on his side, his little bird nestled into his stomach and chest, her hand curled in his as it rested against her flat belly. He listened to her shallow breaths as she drifted to sleep. 

“Merry Sevenmas, little bird.”


	17. XVII

XVII

He didn’t want to wake her, not when she looked so damn peaceful, lying in his bed with her beautiful hair tossed across his pillow. She was flawless, pure, and she was his. 

No - not his, he thought bitterly. But she was here, sleeping as if she belonged in his sheets, in his bed, invading and implanting herself in his life. Tucking a wayward strand of hair out of her face, he knelt by her side. Three weeks ago, this would’ve been the stuff of his wet dreams, a figment of his fucked up imagination, and he couldn’t help thinking that this was just one more thing life meant to give him only to take it away. 

One way or another, he was bound to fuck it up with the girl. He was too rough, spoke like the high school drop out that he was, using curses as commas, and couldn’t offer her any of the refinements or comforts she’d been born to. He’d yelled during their first date, accosted her in the pool on their second, and hadn’t had anything to give her in return for her gift on Sevenmas. 

Threading fingers through her hair, Sandor watched her twitch then relax into his touch. 

Fuck, he didn’t want her to go. She made him laugh. Plenty of women had turned him on over the years, but not one of them had ever made him laugh. And despite his crude manners and strange humors, she made no attempt at changing him. The girl accepted his flaws, scars and all, without condition or complaint. She made it so fucking easy, being with her. 

_ Lucky fucker _ , Sandor smiled briefly before his expression soured.  _ She won’t keep you. _ He needed to leave. Cercei expected him at nine and he wanted to hit the gym before work. 

“Little bird,” he said, rubbing her cheek and neck with his hand. Her blue eyes parted, languid and still half asleep, and a satisfied smile spread over her face as she snuggled into his palm. “I got to go -” Sandor grinned, nipping the tip of her nose to prevent her from drifting back to sleep. “You want me to drive you home?”

“No,” she answered, kissing his hand, “but I need clothes.”

“Don’t need clothes when you’re here.”

“Sure I do. It’s fun when you take them off.”

He was on top of her the next moment, stripping her sheets away and kissing her chest. Fuck the gym. He’d get his work out with her. 

“Don’t start something you won’t finish,” she warned. 

“Say the word and I’ll finish us both.”

Sandor sucked on her breast and she gasped, clutching his head. Looking south to her waist, he pushed off of her. Bruises. 

_ Fuck! _ He roared in his head. She was covered in fingerprints where he’d gripped her too hard. Sandor leaped off the bed, pacing, raging at his own carelessness. 

“Sandor? What’s wrong?”

“Look at you!” He yelled before snapping his jaw shut. 

Sansa glanced down and noticed the light purple and red dots covering her thighs, ribs, and hips, and sighed. She bruised like a peach. 

“I’m alright,” she soothed, a trace of a smile on her face. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He grunted, mistaking her assurances for a white lie intended to ease his guilt. 

Seeing that he meant to beat himself up for nothing, Sansa got up, standing naked before him. His remorse couldn’t hide the hunger in his eyes. 

Wrapping her arms around his abdomen, she raked her nails down his back with just enough pressure to scratch without drawing blood. He shivered, just as he had when she’d done it last night. 

“That doesn’t hurt you, does it?” she asked.

“Fuck no.”

“You like it?”

He nodded, beginning to see her point. 

“You didn’t hurt me,” Sansa repeated, nuzzling her nose in his chest and inhaling his natural scent. “I like how your hands feel. I like your teeth. I like that you don’t treat me like I’ll break.”

Kissing her forehead, he leaned her head back and took her bottom lip in his teeth.

“You’ll tell me...if I-”

“Yes.”

Her breath hitched as he pinched her nipple between his forefinger and thumb.

“You gonna tell me what else you like?”

“Only if I can see you again tonight,” she breathed, hand gliding over his crotch. 

“How big is the bed at your place?”

“It’s a twin.”

“Fuck it, I’ll pick you up after work. Anyone gonna miss you this week if you’re not  home?”

She bit her lip on a smile. 

“Nope.”

  
  


Floating up the stairs to her apartment, Sansa hummed a sweet song, euphorically reminiscing on a night she’d remember forever. The low rasp of his voice, the raw strength of his body, the way he moved, how he spoke, how he looked at her, everything about him felt right. Gods, she hoped she inspired the same feelings in him. The dark side of her mind, eager to spoil her day, ladled on doubts like manure on ice cream. 

_ He’ll get bored if you don’t put out soon.  _

No, she swatted away the insidious thoughts. Whatever this was, this attachment they’d formed, it was genuine. 

_ You’re not his type. He’ll stick around just long enough for sex and then leave when he finds out you have nothing else to offer. _

_ Shut it! _ She yelled at that hateful little voice. Sandor didn’t bother with pretense. If he didn’t like her, he would’ve told her so from the beginning. He would’ve taken her straight home from the bar and told her to,  _ ‘Fuck off’ _ . 

Sansa wiggled her key in the door and went inside, locking it behind her. 

Strange. There was a smell, a whiff of an odor she couldn’t quite place that tickled her memory. She recognized it from somewhere, but it was so faint that she questioned if it weren’t really there. The apartment felt different, though it looked exactly as they’d left it. 

It had to be that Arya was missing. She so rarely had the apartment to herself. Still, the sixth sense of a change pestered her, nagging her into searching their rooms. What was it? 

Wandering back to the living room, she circled the coffee table. 

_ Scratch, scratch. _

She froze at the sound of a fingernail dragging on the floor to her right. 

Slowly, her eyes panned to the side, waiting to spot the tale-tell gray cloak. She stared at the living room bookshelf. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Dust covered school books and literary fiction were piled haphazardly between framed pictures of her family. 

“Hello?” she asked, knowing full well it was futile. In all the years since her father’s death, she’d never experienced what Sandor had the night she jumped into his truck.

_ “What I saw, it wasn’t human,”  _ he’d told her that night. She was beginning to wish she’d stayed at his place. 

_ “Maybe it was your guardian angel?” _ Jane’s words bobbed up from her memories, her words after that day on the street when someone, or something, had pulled her out of traffic. It had saved her then, and again when Joffrey had grabbed her in the alley, inexplicably summoning Sandor to her rescue.

But why now? Goosebumps sprouted down the back of her neck and raised the hairs on her forearms. __

_ It only happens when something’s wrong _ . 

She didn’t want to be here anymore. Hurriedly, she stuffed a dry bag full of clothes, books, her cell phone charger, and was on the verge of calling an Uber, when she realized how foolish she was being. 

_ What am I? A little girl scared of being alone?  _

Checking the lock on the front door and conducting one last walk through to satisfy her niggling fears, she turned on the TV to a random station, not interested in watching but happy for the noise. 

Sansa passed the hours of the day calling her mother and glossing over the details of her evening with Sandor, baking a tray of peanut butter brownies, and tidying the apartment, moving seamlessly from one task to the next in an effort to distract her attention from the occasional sound of a scratch near the bookcase. 

Sandor texted her a quarter past six.

_ “On my way.” _

Cupboards practically bare, she pierced together a meal of turkey and swiss sandwiches, stacked in neat columns of three, and set out mayonnaise, mustard, relish, lettuce, tomatoes, and banana peppers on the counter. 

_ Six ought to be enough, right? _ Pursing her lips, she decided to leave the bread, meat, and cheese out as well. The man could put a trash compactor to shame. 

He knocked on the door, and she saw from his expression that it’d been a long day. 

“I wasn’t sure if you’d eaten,” she said, pointing to the modest feast. 

“Didn’t have to-”

“I know. I wanted to, though I’m afraid it’s not much.”

Sandor’s mouth watered. The girl was a godsend. He delved into the deli delight, slathering condiments on one while cramming down another. Dusting five of the six, he glanced at the last sandwich and then Sansa, realizing she hadn’t had so much as a bite. 

“Sorry, little bird. You take it.”

“After yesterday and the meatballs, I’ve learned my lesson. I ate an hour ago.”

He chuckled and kissed the top of her head, destroying the final sandwich in three bites. 

“I think you might have a tapeworm,” she joked, poking him in the stomach. “Room for dessert?” Sandor peered into the tray and made a face. “Before you say no,” Sansa said holding up a finger, “they’re sweet  _ and _ salty. I put peanut butter in them.” She cut out a tiny square and held it up for him to trial. 

“Don’t care for chocolate.”

“You’re kidding?” she asked, shocked the one man disposal could resist a baked good. “Please don’t tell me you’re a vanilla man?”

“Hm,” he nodded his head, daring her to challenge his preference. 

“I knew there had to be something wrong with you - OH! Sandor, put me down!”

Plopping her up on the counter, he snatched the brownie from her and held it in front of her lips. 

“Open.”

Trapped in place, she blew her hair out of her face and took a bite. Gods she loved chocolate, the fudgier the better. He watched her swallow and before she could speak, he leaned in and parted her mouth with his tongue. 

“Not bad,” he smirked, “was craving somethin’ else.”

“What’s that?”

The button on her pants popped and he pulled on the zipper. 

“Uh -” 

She’d been naked last night and this morning, but they hadn’t started that way. He was skipping forward, jumping straight to her pants. 

Sandor tugged off her jeans, socks, and shoes. Hooking his fingers on the waistband of her underwear, he raised his brow, waiting for her permission. 

Heart pounding, Sansa fixed nervous eyes on him. Dim lighting had helped her to overcome her discomfort with nudity, but in the bright light of the kitchen there was nowhere to hide. 

“Little bird?”

“I haven’t shaven and I should take a shower and you’re probably full. You ate six sandwiches, that’s a lot. Do you want something to drink?”

He silenced her with a kiss, massaging and licking the rosy, soft skin, taking her hands and placing them on his chest and thumbing the top of her mound through her underwear. 

Work was shit and she made for one helluva distraction. His sick mind put in overtime contemplating the things he’d do to her if given half a chance. One fantasy had dogged him incessantly throughout the day, pricking up his prick at the worst fucking moments. It was new for him, and he could count on it being new for her too. 

Gently, yet firmly, he pressed her back to the counter top, kissing his way down her neck to her breasts where he stayed for some minutes, caressing with teeth, lips, and tongue until she writhed, combing her fingers through his hair. She raised her hips as he tugged at the elastic on her panties, too consumed by lust to be shy. Moving lower, his lips blazed a trail over her stomach, beard brushing bare flesh, raising her knees up to rest on his shoulders. 

Sansa came to her senses too late, bolting up to stop him and crying out when his tongue skimmed her clitoris. Her thighs gripped his head and her pelvis thrust up, seeking out the moist connection with his mouth. 

“Sandor….” she moaned, mouth dry and voice strained. 

Fuck, he loved it when she called out his name. Using her breaths, bucks, and spasms as a guide, Sandor flicked his tongue, stroked in circles, and sucked lightly on the tissue bud, savoring the sweetness of her flavor. In the valley of her thighs, he inhaled the raw scent of her core, rubbing his erection through his pants to quell the ache. As the volumes of her cries escalated, so did the flow of her juices, and he drank deeply until her legs flexed and her torso curled, her cries fading to silent as she peaked in his mouth. 

Sandor watched her run her hands through her hair, staring up at the ceiling, and let her legs fall from his shoulders. 

“I think I like your dessert better,” she croaked, laughing. 

He smirked, triumphant. He’d always wanted to try that. 

She sat up on the counter, looking thoroughly pleased and utterly languid. Leaning in, Sandor pressed his wet lips to hers, encouraging Sansa to taste herself and throbbing with need when she delicately suckled his bottom lip, cleaning away her juices and licking his tongue. 

“Fuck -” he groaned. 

“Can I return the favor?”

He’d have begged if she’d asked him.


	18. XVIII

XVIII

That night in Sandor’s bed, Sansa lay in the crook of his arm, fingering the hair on his  abdomen and chest. There were more scars on his thick, sculpted torso, none like his face, but without a doubt, painfully inflicted. He had a long, thin slash bisecting his left pectoral and a circular mass of fibrous tissue sitting below his ribcage on the right. Dozens of small lacerations marred his skin in one place or the next, of differing sizes and makes. 

Sandor waited for the inevitable questions. Where’d they come from? Which would only lead to more problematic questions like, what have you done? He’d been truthful about his arrest - one of his arrests - but he’d neglected to mention the others. She’d overlooked one. Would she overlook five more? 

“Sandor?”

Here it came. 

“How much longer will you work for the Lannisters?”

He rolled onto his side, curious why she would ask.

“Six months. A year. Not sure.”

“And then?”

“Like I said. Don’t know yet.”

“Will you keep taking jobs like this?” Sansa asked, her index finger grazing an old gash wound. She spoke reservedly, trying to disguise her concern. 

“No,” he said, parting the hair out of her face. 

“Good.” 

Her hand moved to the burns on his cheek and ear, and again, he waited for the question to follow. Instead, she kept her eyes focused on his, smiling placidly and pressing her forehead to his. 

“Is everything okay?”

She’d mistaken his bewilderment for chagrin. 

“Aye. Don’t know how you look at this face like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it ain’t a fuckin’ wreck.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits and she pushed him onto his back, crawling onto him and straddling his stomach. Crouching down from on high, she pushed their noses together. 

“Good sir -” she reverted to the nickname he loathed, and he growled up at her - “I happen to be fond of this face. Insult it again and I’ll go on calling you ‘sir’ for a week.”

“Little bird -” he warned, sitting up as she weakly tried to keep him pinned down. 

“Sir?”

“Knock that shit off.”

“Likewise,” Sansa countered, losing the superiority in height. He sat against the headboard, at eye level with her on his lap. 

“I remember the look on your face.”

Gods, she hated herself for that. The day they’d met. She stared at him with what she knew must have been a combination of shock and horror. 

“I’m looking at you now. What do you see?”

“Don’t know.”

“Yes you do.”

“Then I don’t fuckin’ believe it.”

She sighed and bent her head next to his, her soft cheek skin to skin with his scars, and he kissed her neck tenderly. 

“Don’t know what you’re doin’ here with me.”

“No where else that I’d rather be.”

“You’re not gonna ask?”

“No-” she didn’t need him to say what - “can I tell you something though?”

“Hm?”

“You don’t understand why I’m here? I’m terrified you’ll figure out I’m not worth the wait.” 

There was more, but Sandor rotated her under him, trapping her with his body on the bed.  Fierce gray eyes held her in a trance and she froze in place. 

“Nothin’ I want more than to fuck you, but I’ll wait, little bird, I’ll wait, and I’ll fuck you with my fingers and my tongue ‘til your ready. Worth the wait?” He grunted. “You’re worth a lot fuckin’ more than that.” 

She pulled him down and drew his lips to hers, communicating her thanks for his patience with silent endearments. 

Tucking her securely to his side, Sandor fell asleep, arm clasped tightly on her waist, wondering how much longer to wait before asking her to make the sleepovers permanent. Sansa closed her eyes, succumbing to the lulling heat of his body and the comforting scent of his skin, wondering how she’d ever manage to sleep alone in her bed again. 

  
  


Days flew by at breakneck speed, the two developing a subconscious routine of waking in the predawn hours, sharing strong coffee and eggs, before he was out the door to the gym and then work. In the evenings, Sansa had dinner ready when he walked in the door, waiting for him with a smile. Dinner devoured, he devoured her after, dragging her into the tiny shower with him so he could wash off the sweat and licking and rubbing her clitoris until her cries echoed off of the tiles. Slowly, she grew brave with her body and his, no longer hiding her nudity and eagerly removing his pants, dropping to her knees in the living room, in the bathtub, or all fours in the bedroom, and wrapping her lips on his cock. 

When they were sated, they watched TV or Sandor listened to her talk about her family and school, and they continued their game of points when one guessed correctly about some incremental facet of the other’s life. 

“Ten pairs of shoes - at least.”

“No point, what girl doesn’t?”

“Girls with no credits cards.”

“You have two pairs of shoes.”

“No. You can’t have that. You’ve seen ‘em.”

“Fine. The first new piece of clothing you’ve purchased in the last year was those swim trunks you wore at the spa.”

“Aye. You haven’t drove a car in a year.”

“Point, how’d you know?”

“You like being chauffeured.”

“Chauffeured?” Sansa scoffed at the accusation.  


“Aye, privileged little bird.”

She pinched his ribs. 

“Take it back.”

“You like when I open the door of my truck. You like it when I hold your hand in and out.”

“That’s what a gentleman does! Why wouldn’t I like being treated like a lady?

He grinned at her with an infuriating smugness and she realized she’d proven his point. 

“You -” she landed a finger on his sternum - “are uncomfortable with my family’s wealth.”

Sandor rolled his eyes. 

“Fuckin’ fine, point.” Flipping her legs up and head back on the couch cushion, Sandor peeled off her leggings. “You like my tongue more than my fingers.”

She did. 

They had a week of laughter and pleasure, taking joy in a multitude of small moments and sinful delights. 

If he’d barely tolerated his job prior to Sansa, he detested it now, leaving her each morning to accompany the Lannister bitch on her errands. Eight to ten hours a day he gave up spending with Sansa to guard a vicious cunt of a woman losing grip on her empire of gold and sanity as the troublesome calls for her debts due escalated. 

Friday afternoon, Sandor stared ahead at the wall as Joffrey and Cersei had it out. She’d cancelled his credit card after warning him about spending. 

“We can hardly pay for your car and your insurance. We must limit unnecessary purchases, my darling, just for a short time -"

“This is all your fault,” Joffrey spat. “Grandfather was right about you. You don’t know what you’re doing. You’ve lost my inheritance, my money. It was mine and you lost it!”

“It’s not so simple, my love,” Cercei said with unfailing patience for the spoilt parasite she’d raised. “The markets can be challenging to predict, and this last year has been volatile."

“It’s not the markets, it’s you. A woman can’t be trusted to run a business. Grandfather should have given the board control. They would have kept me rich. You’ve gone and ruined everything!”

“Joffrey -”

He slapped her, and Sandor recognized the sadistic glint in the little fucker’s eyes. Cercei rebounded quickly and he hit her again, raising his hand to continue the onslaught. Sandor snatched his wrist, crossing the room in a flash. He waited for Cercei to give the command. 

“Let me go!” Joffrey screamed petulantly. 

“Let him go,” Cersei ordered, straightening up. Sandor released the sneering twerp. “I’ve given you explicit instructions never to touch Joffrey.”

“Hm,” he nodded and returned to his post. The night in the alley with Sansa, Sandor had done what he could to scare some sense into the prick prince, but a few nights of separation and he was back to himself. The only clue he had that Joffrey had made mention of it to Cercei, was her strict instructions soon after that no matter the circumstance, Trant and Sandor were never to put hands on her son.

Bloated with self importance, Joffrey spit in her face.

“I think I’ll go stay with Grandfather. Since uncle Jaime is such a disappointment and you’re worthless, he’ll be needing a male heir to succeed him.”

Sandor could have laughed and waved the fucker out the door. Tears flowed from Cercei, but she didn’t speak. Joffrey flipped Sandor off and strutted to his room to collect his things. Cercei dismissed Sandor as soon as he’d gone. 

Fuck. Things were falling apart, and the loss of her wealth would likely mean his job if things didn’t turn around. 

_ Would that be so bad? _

He’d been saving for seven years, he had a good chunk, but was it enough? 

_ Enough for what? _

That was just the thing. He didn’t know. He’d have enough to get out, to start a new life, to...Sandor took a steep breath in through his nostrils. Looking into his hazy future, only one thing was clear. He wanted her in it. 

_ Fuck, fuck, mother fucking fuck! You’re three weeks in you fuckin’ sad sack. _

The truth of it was, he heard her talk about her own indecision about school and a career and assumed when she figured out her life, she’d know he didn’t fit in it. They were two strays who’s paths had crossed. Soon, her path would take her somewhere else, onto bigger and better things. Good job, nice house, and a rich, good looking husband to buy her lavish gifts. 

_ You’re a fuckin’ temp. Enjoy it, but don’t get used to it.  _

She’d be kind, he thought, breaking it off when the time came. 

_ Sweet as the sugary shit she loves.  _

It’d be up to him to take it like a man and let her go. 

Sandor pulled into the parking lot and slouched over his steering wheel, staring at the glowing light inside his apartment. It was her last night with him before she had to go home. This last week, coming home to her, having someone cook for him - why the hell she wanted to, he didn’t know - and smiling at him like she was so damn pleased just to see him, had been a veritable bliss he'd never known. Clenching his fists, he cleared the pressure building in his throat. 

_ She’s not yours. Never will be.  _

It didn’t matter though. None of it did. A couple weeks, a few months, whatever she’d  give him, he’d take it. He couldn’t bring himself to call it quits, even if it might spare him some pain down the road. 

_ She’s not mine. But I’m hers. So long as she wants me. _

Slamming the truck door, his thick soled boots thudded in the shallow puddles on the asphalt. He checked himself at the door. She was getting better at reading him. 

_ Keep your sufferin’ to yourself.  _

Sandor turned the knob and walked into the heavenly aroma of stir fry, steaming on a plate on the counter with a note next to it. 

All yours! Enjoy  :)

I’m taking a quick shower. 

Sure enough, he heard the water running in the bathroom and turned to the sauce ladened vegetables, chicken, and rice, heaped in a generous mountain of savory goodness. The only thing that slowed him down was the searing heat on the roof of his mouth. Swallowing a mouthful, he could feel it go down his throat and land in his stomach. Fuck, it was good. 

Sandor ate standing at the counter, mopping up what was left of the sauce with thhe remaining steamed rice in a pot on the stove. He rinsed his plate and stacked it on top of the mound of dishes, they could wait until later. Right now, he had a little bird to thank for a week’s worth of good meals. 

Walking quietly to the bathroom, he poked his head through the door and his brows furrowed. The water was running, but she wasn’t in it. He turned the spigot off and glanced down the hall to his room. The bedside lamp was on, but he couldn’t see her half of the bed. Curious, he looked in and his heart slammed to a stop. 

“Hi -” Sansa blushed, naked and laying across the bedspread, her hair spilling over her shoulders and covering her breasts. 

Sandor ran his eyes up and down her body, gripping the doorway for support. He’d seen her bare plenty of times, but never like this. She seemed...different. 

“I thought we could try - since it’s my last night here…” she said, mildly tremulous and biting her lip.

“You want to?” Sandor hardly knew his own voice, choking out a hoarse whisper. 

She nodded and sat up, taking his hand and kissing the palm. 

He went down on one knee so they were at the same height. 

“Don’t gotta do this. You know that?”

He wouldn’t, he told himself, not if she was just doing this to please him. 

Sansa smiled brightly, her beautiful blue eyes shining radiantly in the dim light of the lamp. Starting at his forehead, she kissed the center, then moved to kiss the tip of his nose. She planted another kiss on the unblemished cheek and, purposefully pausing to look him in the eye, she kissed the scars of his burns, smothering the puckered flesh with her lips from the side of his mouth, to his missing ear, to the singed skin surrounding his eye, and returning to his lips once more. 

“Sandor,” she spoke his name like a prayer and he answered, lifting her in one arm and laying her back on the bed, covering her and claiming her mouth with a passion unleashed by her open affection. 

He sucked on her tongue, lapping at it and stroking it as a hand snaked around the base of her neck, tilting it so he could better consume her. 

Sansa found the hem of his shirt and ran her hands underneath, skimming fingers over hair covered muscles, and pulling the garment up, up, up, until he broke their heated kiss to remove it. She dodged his lips to concentrate on his belt buckle and fly, beginning to shake with anticipation and fear. 

Grasping her quaking hands, Sandor held them firmly, rubbing his thumbs in soothing circles on her skin.

“Scared?”

She swallowed and smiled thinly. 

“You like what we been doin’?” he rasped, referring to the previous nights of oral sex, heavy petting, and groping. 

“Yes.”

“Then we do that. Don't gotta do more less you want to.” Sandor searched her face for approval and saw the panic in her expression recede. 

Nodding, she accepted his kiss and instead of working on the fly of his pants, she fondled him through the fabric, tracing the heft of his long shaft with her nails and sighing as he growled and thrust into her hand. 

He kissed the tension away, taking his time with her mouth and her neck, nipping his way to her breasts and teasing her nipples with his teeth. 

Sansa explored the corded muscles on his shoulders and back, reveling in his strength, tempered in her embrace and twitching in response to her touch. Untying the knot of hair, she combed out the black locks, scratching his scalp while he sucked on her breasts. She loved the feel of him, his calloused hands and the rough texture of his scars. She loved the tickle of his beard and how his weight settled on her, and the low grumble in his chest when she caressed his middle. Using the tips of her fingers, she gripped the outline of his erection through his pants and stroked, arching her back and hips off the bed, urging him closer. 

Growing frustrated by his state of overdress, Sandor kicked off his pants, leaving his thin cotton boxers on. He knelt to kiss her lips and drew in a harsh breath as her hand dipped under his underwear and encircled him, squeezing him from base to tip in long strokes. 

“Fuck,” Sandor murmured into her neck. 

“You know my preference,” Sansa whispered in his ear. “What’s yours? My hands or my  mouth?” 

He chuckled, his lips and tongue darting over her skin and pinching a nipple with forefinger and thumb. Wrapping her legs around his waist, he pinned her arms above her head. 

“Mouth,” he replied, bucking against her core through his boxers. “Second best way to be in you.”

She hadn’t thought of it like that, him being inside her whenever she took him in her mouth. What was more, she couldn’t fit all of him. She had to use her hands on the base. 

Sansa met the gentle pace of his hips, grinding her swelling clitoris on the substantial bulge of his cock, captivated by instinct as they practiced moving together. The slight chafing paid off in delicious friction, their swaying matching the ebb and flow motion of their lips. 

Sandor craved the feel of her slickness on him, kept separate by a millimeter of cloth. He was building too quickly, physically aching for release as her thighs flex on his hips, riding him from below as if he were already inside her. Space, he needed space to take the edge off. Rolling onto his back, he lifted her onto his lap and rested his shoulders on the headboard, taking a breath to regain some control. Letting her choose what to do next, he caught her by the shoulders as she went straight for his boxers.

Confused, Sansa glanced up as though she’d done something wrong. 

“I’m already close, little bird.”

Scarlet infused her cheeks as she stared down at his stomach. 

“Won’t it help...if it’s wet?”

It took his brain a full ten seconds to reboot. She was offering to blow him then fuck him with the dick she’d made moist with her mouth. 

“Come here,” he managed to say, scooting her waist up his body. He took a single finger and slid in between her folds and swore through a groan. From her curls to the sweet, warm center of her heat, she was wet, coating his finger and hand in slippery fluid. Circling her clitoris he listened to her ragged breaths enraptured. She sang for him, crying out and rocking his hips in time with the flick of his finger. Gradually, carefully, he delved deeper, sinking into her body, introducing her to shallow penetration. 

Eyes wide, she slid back and forth on his hand, taking his finger in little by little. He added another, two fingers to stroke her insides, and her head arched back when Sandor thumbed the bundle of nerves nestled to the front of her folds. She’d gone to his second knuckles, as far as he dared to go. 

“Sandor,” she breathed, hips still moving, “are you - is this -”

“No, little bird, just a warm up.”

“It feels good.”

His let out a shuddering breath, nodding mutely, stricken in awe as he worked his fingers in and out of her silk. 

“Sandor - please?”

“What, little bird?” he husked. Did she want him to finish her like this? Did she want his cock? Fuck, whatever she wanted, he’d give it. 

Sansa tugged at his boxers and this time he relented, helping her rip them off, his prick springing up. 

The uncertainty returned to her face, and Sandor lowered her to his lap so that his erection was pinned between them, and slid her on him in the same method as he’d done with his hand. A wave of tingling pleasure rolled through his groin to his abdomen, his legs tensing as her fluids lubricated his length. 

Sansa glided on him easily, balancing with her hands on his chest, coming undone as the smooth, hard flesh of his erection pressed her just right, finishing what he’d started with his fingers. Moaning his name, her nipples hardened and she came on top of him, bathing him in a pool of her release. 

“Little bird -” 

He was going to cum.  _ Fuck, no! _ He strained against it, fists clenched and gritting his teeth.  _ Not yet, Gods dammit! Not yet! _

__ Inhaling through his nostrils he fought to clear his mind from the ecstasy threatening to push him over the edge. The scent of her orgasm, her warmth on his cock, the sound of her pants, he blocked it out, pulling the reins on his climax. If she felt this good without having taken him in…

“Sandor?”

He made a noise, his eyes shut tight.

She recognized the look, he was struggling to hold back, and to think that she’d brought this giant man to this state, his control slipping from his grasp, intoxicated her to the point where her doubts, her fears, her reticence for pain, were buried by an avalanche of need to hear him reach his peak. 

Taking him in hand, she squeezed him once to get his attention, and jaw hanging slack, he stared at her like a man starved. She fixed his gray eyes with hers and eased down on him, the head of his cock nestled within her.  His Adam's apple bobbed as he watched, unable to speak or move, mesmerized by her boldness. Succumbing to the mind shattering sensations, he thrust up out of instinct, pushing to the very boundary of her innocence. 

He stretched her, more than his fingers had, yet it felt oddly natural, to be filled in this way. At the first twinge of pain, she hesitated. Was this where it would begin hurting? She’d heard stories from other girls at school, about their first time, and how long it took before sex became comfortable. 

_ I can do this _ , she thought, giving a slight push down and then stopped with a whimper. 

Sandor sat up and held her face in his hands. Even bar skags had trouble with his size. Bracing her to him, he rolled on top of her, supporting his weight on his knees. This was new territory for them both. She’d never had sex and he’d never been anyone’s first.

“Slow or quick?” he asked, unsure what was best. 

Unfortunately, she didn’t know either. 

_ Rip it off like a bandaid _ , Sansa decided, placing her arms around his neck and burying her face in his chest. 

“Quick -” she said and cried out as he complied in one swift thrust, burying himself to the hilt. 

He heard her sniff and pulled back to see the tears falling down her cheeks.

“Alright, little bird?”

She nodded, smiling through the tears. 

“Mmhm.”

“You want me to stop?”

“No,” and she kissed him, taking a moment to adjust before she experimented with a small roll of her hips. 

_ Easy, go easy, _ Sandor repeated over and over in his head. She’d tolerated everything he’d give up to until now, the least he could do was be gentle while she was hurting. It wasn’t as if the slow strokes weren’t fucking amazing. He was in her, he marveled, their tongues intertwined, feeling her tight walls clamping on his cock. Quick fucks had nothin’ on this. 

They built an unhurried rhythm, taking their time to pick up the pace, slowing whenever Sandor’s organsm threatened to peak. Sweating, gasping, and moaning, they embraced, kissed, and thrust, tangling the sheets and breaking apart only long enough to catch their breath before starting again. 

The pain subsided steadily for Sansa, dulling to ache, and bit by bit, her body welcomed his intrusion, and she heard herself pleading for him to go faster. 

“Please, Sandor, more. Please more.”

He tried to hang on, to give her what she needed, but he was losing his battle with control. Thrusting harder than he meant to, his cock stroked the nerves in her core, and Sansa dug her nails into his back. 

“Don’t stop,” she begged. 

Sandor drew back on his knees, raising her hips, and fucked her, filled her, and surrendered his remaining control to her. Her walls clenched and spasmed and he vaguely heard her moans when his release came and the world ceased to exist. He roared out a groan, digging his fingers into her sides, cumming hard and buckling over as he finished. 

The intensity of her orgasm was nearly too much, every nerve ending in her body firing to the beat of his strokes. Legs quivering, back arched, Sansa held on as wave after wave of racked her body, curling her toes and closing her eyes. 

In the minutes that followed, they recovered in a fog of fatigue. Sandor rolled to her side, pulling her back to his chest and stomach and folding his legs behind hers. He covered them in a sheet and lay his head on the pillow, Sansa already asleep on his arm. 

Three words hovered on the tip of his tongue as he brushed the sweat soaked strands out of her face. 

_ Not yet,  _ he told himself.  _ Not yet. _


	19. XIX

XIX

The following morning was a bittersweet affair. Reality beckoned to them both. She couldn’t stay. Not now. Not yet. School started on Monday and Arya would return home this afternoon along with Jon and Robb, and Sansa knew she was in for a barrage of questions about what exactly she’d been up to for the last eight days. 

She sipped her coffee quietly, lost in thought at how much had changed in a week. 

Sandor coughed and Sansa glanced up, meeting his penetrating expression. He took her hand and rubbed her thumb.

“You alright, little bird?”

“Mmhm,” she answered with a swallow and smiled. 

“You’re not chirpin’.”

“My mind carried me away. I was thinking about school and how unbearable Arya will be when she gets home.” 

He raised her hand and kissed her knuckles .

“Not regrettin’ nothin’?”

She choked on her coffee. 

“No! Gods no! My only regret is that I have to go home.”

His shoulders relaxed. Tugging on her arm, he held her between the legs of his chair. From out of his pocket, he took out his key ring. She watched as he removed one of a pair and stuck it in her hand.

“So you don’t fuckin’ freeze on my porch again.”

Gaping at the key, she shook the shock off her face. For a moment, she’d thought… Sansa let out a snort. 

“Thank you. I promise not to abuse the privilege.”

“Fuck that. You come over whenever you want.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re going to miss my cooking.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Not  _ just _ your cookin’-”

She tried to mimic his growl and punched him in the arm. He caught her fist and pulled her off balance and into his chest, kissing her as he flattened his palm to her behind, giving her a swift spank. 

“Did you just -?” Sansa asked, dubious. 

“Aye. More where that came from -” he winked.

They gathered her things together and loaded them into his truck. 

“Would it be alright if I left this here?” 

Sandor raised a brow and looked at the toothbrush she held. 

“Just in case?” 

She was thinking of the next time she’d be here and he grinned like the happiest, daftest fool in the circus. 

“Got a drawer in the nightstand you can use too.”

“Thanks!” she beamed, practically bouncing back to his room to deposit a spare change of clothes.

He drove her to her apartment and walked her up the stairs to the landing. Backing her to the door, he ran a hand across her stomach. 

“Fuck!” he grumbled, eyes on her flat belly. "Didn't use a condom." Last thing she needed was to be knocked up by a mangy dog. Thinking through the options, he wondered if he ought to take her to a clinic.

“Sandor -” she laughed that he hadn’t thought of this before now - “I’ve been on the pill since our second date.”

Eyeing her , he pressed her to the door.

“Before or after?”

“After. I wasn’t sure...the way you kissed me. It felt...and then you stayed that night when you didn’t have to -”

He kissed her, pinning her against him and fastening onto her hips as he had that day in the spa, trapping her to the side of the pool and ravaging her mouth. 

“What time’s your sister gettin’ here?” he asked, his erection pressing into her stomach. 

“Not until noon.”

“You sore?”

“Not enough to care.”

Sandor gave her just enough space to turn and key the lock, wrapping an arm around her waist and nipping the back of her neck. Once the door opened, he picked her up, kicking the door closed behind them. In the kitchen, he leaned her down on the countertop where he’d tasted her. She blushed at the memory. She’d have to clean the counters before Arya got home. Removing her shirt, he kissed his way from her neck, to her shoulders, to her spine, unhooking her bra and cupping her freed breasts, nudging her legs apart. He eased down her pants to her ankles, exposing her backside and she heard him undo his belt buckle. 

Sandor swiped a finger through the front of her folds and groaned. She was wet for him. 

Moaning as he stroked her, Sansa splayed her hands out for support on the cold marble surface, enjoying the range of sensations between his hot body and the frigid counter. She wondered at the way he’d positioned her. What was he doing?

She gasped as he entered her from behind, one hand pinching a nipple, the other circling her clitoris. 

“Okay?” he asked, kissing the middle of her back. 

“Y-yes. You feel...it’s deeper…”

It didn’t hurt as it had initially last night, but she could feel the stretch of tender flesh.

“Breath,” Sandor rasped, letting go of her breast to put a hand on her hip. His fingers pressed, rocking her into his thrust as his fingers continued to flick her sweet spot gently. 

Crying out at the depth and the angle he filled her, Sansa gave in to her impulses and sank back on him hard, wanting to take him in fully. 

“Fuck -” he withdrew, breathing hard. 

She whined. Why had he stopped? They’d only just begun. 

“Sandor -”

“Keep doin’ that and you’re gonna make me cum,” he growled in her ear and she moaned, bucking backwards and turning her face up to nip the underside of his neck through his beard. 

“Keep saying things like that and I won’t be far behind.”

She heard him swear under his breath as a hand pressed her flat to the counter and he clamped down on her hips. 

He buried himself in her with a rough thrust and they groaned together. 

“Little bird...say somethin’. Stop me if I’m hurtin’ you.”

“Sandor,” she breathed out in a plea, “please...fuck me.”

There was a moment of silence and she wasn’t sure if he’d heard her, or worse, if her language had turned him off. The fingers on her hips dug into her skin and she heard the change in his breathing. The next thrust of his hips surprised her. He _had_ been gentle with her, but not now. Now he moved with a frenzy, plunging in and out of her and using his hold on her to bounce her backwards with every thrust forward. 

The small twinge of pain was masked by the pleasure she had listening to every grunt, every groan, every cry that escaped from his throat, fanning the flames of her own passion. She loved that she could make him lose his control, to hear him wild with lust. 

“Sandor -”

He slowed and she clenched him tight from the inside.

“Fuck!” 

“Don’t stop,” she implored at length, and he picked up the pace from where he’d left off, placing a steadying hand on the small of her back. 

Sandor eyes were glued to her ass and his wet cock sliding in and out of her warmth. He wasn’t going to last. His finger, dripping in her fluids, flicked her clitoris faster, urging for her to catch up. 

“Little bird…”

She moaned at the heady desperation in his voice, resonating down to her core. 

“Gonna cum.”

“Yes,” Sansa said, meeting his thrusts and riding his finger. 

“Cum, little bird,” he begged. “Want to hear you cum with me.”

Legs shaking with the effort to stand, Sansa peaked, her walls spasming and quivering around him. Crying out like a condemned man saved from the gallows, his knees buckled and he fell forward, using an arm to bear his weight on the counter and grinding to a finish. 

Snaking an arm around her stomach, he kissed the back of her head. 

“No lies. Did I hurt you?”

“A little,” she admitted, still breathless. “But it felt good.”

Chuckling, he kissed and licked the sweat off her neck.

When she recovered her senses, she pried herself off the marble with some support from him to stand. After a shower, Sansa walked him to the door. 

“It’ll be weird, sleeping alone.”

“Don’t hafta,” he said, raising her chin and pressing a kiss to her lips. “The runt can take  care of herself.” 

“I don’t doubt that. I was thinking, maybe next weekend? I can bring my school stuff if I need it, but we could - if you want to -”

With one last kiss he pulled her close. 

“Whatever you want, little bird.”

“Friday?”

“Gonna be a fuckin’ long week.”

She nodded, inhaling his scent one last time, making a mental note to steal one of his shirts. 

They slowly parted and she listened to the sound of his footfalls going down the stairs. 

How on earth would she make it to Friday? 

An hour later, Arya texted. She’d arrived at the airport and was taking an Uber. 

_ “Meet me out front. Mom sent me with all of your crap.” _

She sighed. The return to reality sucked. 

Scrubbing the marble on the kitchen island and opening a window, Sansa sprayed air freshener and lit a candle to disguise the particular odor she now recognized as sex, giggling at the thought of Arya making a snack on a surface they’d put to use twice. 

A car horn honked out front and Sansa went out to meet her younger sister, leaving the apartment  door open behind her. 

Arya huffed. 

“Where’s Frankenstein?”

“Stop calling him names.”

“Make me, Red.”

“You know, maybe you should move it with Robb and Jon.”

“You first.”

It took both of them to lift the giant trunk out of the back of the car and they waddled with it up the stairway with bags slung over the necks. 

“Gods, what did mom pack?”

“Knowing mother, everything not nailed down in our rooms.”

Their apartment door had closed in the meantime and Sansa jiggled the handle, smacking it open with her hip. The trunk screeched on the floor as they pushed it through, neither noticing the door silently closing behind them. 

“So,” Arya said, her hands on her hips, “did you do it?”

“Arya!” 

Was the last thing she said before a burning bolt of pain struck her spine. 


	20. XX

XX

Sansa’s jaw ached and there was something hard fastened between her teeth and lips. She tried to spit it out as her eyes fluttered open on the hazy image of her sister, stripped and naked in a chair sitting across from her. 

A rigid rubber ball gag blocked her scream, muffling the sound. Her brain came online, taking in the feel of zip ties restraining her arms behind her back and her legs to the hard wood of the seat. Her limbs grew numb from the position and diminished circulation, tingling painfully. The apartment air conditioning blasted her bare skin and she searched for whoever had undressed them. There was no one. They were utterly alone and tied up in their living room. But why? How? 

She called to Arya, still unconscious with her head drooping down on her chest. Unable to stand, Sansa rattled the chair to get closer, continuing to yell with all her might. One of her knees made contact with Arya’s leg, and she bumped her repeatedly. 

_ Wake up, wake up! _

A minute later, Arya moaned, her head lolling on her neck as if she were in a drunken stupor. She raised her head up, eyes squinting with a grimace, and flexed her arms. Her eyes popped open in panic and she looked at herself and then at Sansa’s terrified expression. 

“MMMMM,” she yelled against the ball gag and looked for the culprit. Seeing no one, she turned to Sansa.

_ What’s going on?  _ Arya asked wordlessly.

__ _ I don’t know, but this is bad...Jane _ , Sansa thought. This was how they’d found Jane, except...except Jane -  _ Oh, Gods _ , she began to cry. 

Arya had a similar thought, breathing hard and fighting uselessly against the zip ties as tears of frustration and fear formed in her eyes. 

There was a rap on the door, the sort of knock an intimate friend might use to announce themselves. Their heads spun to look as the door opened and a greasy haired man with beady black eyes entered wearing a sinister smile. 

_ Ramsay _ , Sansa groaned, and in that moment, everything made perfect sense. He only ever appeared when she and Jane were on their own and how many times had he offered to walk them home last year?

“Hello Sansa,” he said, violently cheerful and locking the door behind him. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to introduce myself to my neighbors.” 

Sansa and Arya exchanged looks. He’d been living across the hall this whole time?

“It’s been tricky sneaking in and out so we wouldn’t have any awkward run-ins before I was ready for an intimate one-to-one meeting. As you can see,” he said, tossling Arya’s hair as she flinched from him, “I’ve given up on trying to get you alone. There was always your sister or your brothers getting in the way, and more recently,” he pinched his eyes shut, grinding his teeth, “an ugly giant.”

Slung on his shoulder was a long bag that he unsnapped and rolled out on the coffee table. Sansa’s heart pounded and Arya paled. 

In neat rows down the center were a variety of surgeon’s tools. There were several scalpels arranged by the size of the blade, a pair of medieval bone saws, serrated shears, and pliers. 

“I was disappointed in you Sansa,” Ramsay sighed, running his fingers lovingly over the terrifying implements. “You were so virtuous, so pure, the very essence of innocence. You were going to be the crown jewel in my collection.” Without a warning, he slapped her with enough force to knock the chair over and Sansa landed hard on her shoulder with the chair stuck to her back. The slap hadn’t hurt half as much as the fall and pain bolted down her arm. 

Arya bounced in the chair, whipping her head to remove the ball gag. 

Two boots appeared in Sansa’s vision and she wondered if he’d kick her. Instead, he picked her up by her hair, using it to lift the weight of her body until she thought his grip would rip her scalp off. 

“You know what you are now?” He asked, nose to nose and breathing the horrid stench of his breath in her face. “Soiled. Ruined. Trash.” Plucking a tiny scalpel from the set, he ran the dull end along the curve of her cheek. “You don’t deserve it, but I’m going to fix you. I’ll cut away every part of you touched by that filth,” he said, caressing the inside of her thigh and Sansa wanted to vomit. 

“But first,” Ramsay straightened and took one long stride to Arya, “I’ll have some fun with this feisty little cherub. You’ve stolen my moment of glory Sansa, but I’ll cope. I’ve never had sisters before.”

Sansa’s muffled sob begged him to stop, to let her sister go. His smile broadened. 

“Music to my ears,” he slid the blade in a slice down the outside of Arya’s arm and she screamed, closing her eyes. “I’ve always craved an audience. It’s taken time to get the technique right. When I’m done, I’ll have you wear her skin for a while, just to see what it’s like.”

Inside her head, Sansa prayed and pleaded to the Gods, to her father, to the universe for her sister’s life. 

_ Please, Gods please. Don’t let her die! _

  
  


Sandor checked his phone for a text. 

_ Dumbass. It’s been four fuckin’ hours since you left.  _

He’d gone for a workout, picked up some groceries from the store, and came home to an empty apartment. There was nothing to watch on TV and it was too early to start drinking. On the couch next to him his phone sat noiselessly. 

How much time did she need with her sister? She said Friday, but it was Saturday night. Would she come out with him or did she want him to give her space? They’d just spent a week together. 

_ “How’s the runt?” _ he typed out and pressed send. It never took much to get her to start texting him long strings of messages. He wasn’t great at responding, but he enjoyed the steady ping on his phone knowing she was on the other end. 

A few minutes passed and there was no response. 

_ Give her some fuckin’ space, needy fucker.  _

Throwing his phone down on the couch, Sandor went to the kitchen and checked the fridge. It’d be another buttered noodle night. He got a pot of water boiling and meandered back to his phone. Still nothing. 

_ Let it go. _

But it wasn’t like her to not reply. The girl carried the damn phone everywhere. He chewed on the inside of his cheek. It was too damn soon to call. 

_ You can go one fuckin’ day you clingy piece of shit.  _

  
  
  


“Oh, look who it is,” Ramsey held up Sansa’s phone with Sandor’s text displayed. “The runt? Why that must be you,” he said, smiling like a hungry hyena at Arya. 

Sansa’s cheeks and throat burned from screaming as she was forced to look on while he cut up her sister. 

Breathing hard through her tears, Arya sat bleeding, dark red blood running from lateral incisions made from shoulder to elbow on each side. Ramsey flourished the scalpel, dropping Sansa’s phone and smashing the screen with the heel of his foot. Bringing over a bar stool, he straddled it next to Arya. 

“Your sister is quite the freak. Do you know that?” he asked, using the blade to push her hair out of her face. Arya’s eyes burned through him, challenging him though she was trapped. “I thought she was just dating the ugly brute out of pity, but no. Sansa likes the taste of garbage.” Closing in as if to kiss her, he whispered in her ear. “I watched them. Through a camera right there -” and he pointed to the bookshelf. “I wanted to see your beautiful sister, and instead I watched him defile her.”

Sick to her stomach, Sansa gagged. The scratching by the bookshelf, she’d been looking for someone, not something. And he’d watched her and Sandor...bile rose in the back of her throat. 

“You want to know what they did?” Ramsey prodded, skimming the tool along Ayra’s neckline. “It was filthy.” 

Without warning, Arya snapped her head forward, her forehead smacking into his nose with a crunch. It knocked him backward and the scalpel from his hand, sliding over the tile floor. 

Sansa cheered and they both pulled at their restraints, but Ramsey was back on his feet in a flash, momentarily lost in a mad rage. His fist collided with Arya’s jaw and she landed with a dull thump. Standing over her sister, he twitched and for a second, Sansa thought he meant to beat Arya to death. Horrified, she watched him reach for another tool and unwilling to sit without a fight, she launched herself in the chair at his back. 

Her knees struck the floor, then her head, and a flash of white light blinded her vision, but she heard him hit the coffee table with the rattling sound bone on glass. 

Ramsey had fallen awkwardly over Arya’s chair, breaking his fall on the table with his chin and neck. He’d bitten his tongue and blood flowed in his mouth. He wheezed through a bruised trachea. 

Climbing to his feet, a hand on his throat, he gazed at the two women on the floor with cold hate. 

Never mind art. Never mind practice or patience. 

Dragging them apart, he took up the bone saw. 

“Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,” Ramsey flicked the tool from one to the other. “Who’s the first to lose a toe? If she hollers, make her pay. With an arm, or with a leg.”

  
  


Sandor ate his dinner in silence, glaring at his phone and slurping his noodles. His knees bounced up and down impatiently. Something was eating at him, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. He washed the dishes and paced through the living room twice. 

_ The fuck is wrong with me? _

Going into the bathroom for a piss, he yelled out at the split second reflection in the mirror. 

_ Red eyes. Fuckin’ red eyes, just like that night. _

The specter was back. Sandor stared at his reflection, half expecting the drawn, cloaked figure to reappear. 

Without a second thought, he went for his phone to call Sansa. 

The phone rang and rang, then went straight to her voicemail. He called again. Then again. 

_ Fuck! _

He grabbed his coat and ran out the door. 


End file.
